Some Things are Meant to Be, Part 2, Motive and Reason
by GeakLover
Summary: Part 2, Chapters 1-7. In which Sherlock and John investigate the strange death of a wealthy senior gentleman. Their discoveries lead them on to investigate a far bigger case and Sherlock must eventually enlist the help of his brother, Mycroft. Sherlock makes John deeply uncomfortable and forces him to begin coming to terms with the true boundaries of their friendship.
1. Chapter 1 - Back Pains

**Some Things are Meant to be**

A BBC FanFic Sherlock/John Story.

**By Geak, The Madnose**

**PART 2 – Motive and Reason**

**Chapter 1**

**Back Pains**

"On the left; the psoas muscle, it is the biggest and strongest player in a group of muscles called the hip flexors. Together they contract to pull the thigh and the torso toward each other. On the right: the quadratus lumborum muscle, it contributes to the stabilization and movement of the spine and the pelvis. As well as side to side flexion and extension of the lower back. These guys are the top contributors to back pain or soreness. Except what _he_ was feeling wasn't actually pain in his back, it was in his liver." Molly lectured.

John was listening but he could see from the look on Sherlock's face that he was discarding information as fast as it came out of her mouth. His eyes darted to John's face and then back down to the cadaver lying flat on the table.

"He was describing soreness and back pain three days prior to his death." Sherlock said, puzzling.

"There was nothing that anyone could do?" John asked.

Sherlock handed John the report. "Came in to Barts in the middle of the night, dazed and yelling nonsense. Then fell to the floor and was dead in minutes."

"His toxicity report is ready." Molly said, tilting her head as she smiled up at Sherlock.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked blandly. John smiled at how unfazed he could be by her longing expressions.

"You'll probably think so." Molly continued. "First off, there's heroin. A balance that suggests he was a regular user."

Sherlock squinted. "Sixty eight years old and enough heroin in his system to support the theory that he was a frequent drug abuser. He should have been very sick and in considerable pain for _days_ before that if he was suffering from liver failure. However, the heroin numbed the pain and kept him from realizing that something was seriously wrong. He was seemingly very healthy a week prior, regularly rode his bike, active in his church, active with his family, a gardener with a flourishing greenhouse and sells his products at Denio's farmer's market on the weekends."

John picked up the clipboard, scanning it for answers. "Autopsy report says official cause of death was_ an intracerebral hemorrhage? Really?" He asked Molly, scanning the documents again.

"It was the stroke that killed him but his liver was also failing. At the rate it had been failing, he should have been in the hospital days ago. It could have been handled. Oh, Sherlock, his screening revealed extremely high doses of acetaminophen as well as heroin." Molly said. Sherlock stared at the ceiling.

"Well. We know what caused the liver failure then. Tylenol poisoning." He drawled.

John flipped through the report again. "Hang on, Sherlock how do you know about the gardening and all that?" He asked, looking over the body thoroughly.

Sherlock spoke very quickly. "Mainly from his belongings. He had nice deep pockets full of interesting things. Current, hand laminated photographs of his wife, children, and grandchildren in his wallet tell me he's close to his family. There were a few open packets of seeds in his back pockets and he must have a greenhouse to grow the plants because none of them could survive without a controlled temperature and humidity level. He has Denio's vender receipts in his wallet among other receipts and he had three small paper pamphlets for Goodall's church, wherever that is. He wouldn't have more than one if he didn't hand them out. Finally, the distinctly shaped leg muscles indicate regular exercise on a bicycle." He paused for a breath.

"What doesn't make sense is that he was dying of liver failure caused by having enough acetaminophen in his system to numb a horse's tooth ache, he was not a drug user but he had been ingesting an ample amount of heroin and he actually died of a stroke. Isn't it fun?"

John grimaced, feeling inappropriate because he wanted to smile. He was staring at Sherlock's right shoulder. There was a fine layer of orange powder all over the arm of his coat, reaching down to his wrist. Squinting at him a little closer John noticed a fine dark blue powder over the other arm and all down his back.

"That's all brilliant. He was dosed by someone and just happened to make enough of a scene as he died to interest Sherlock Holmes. Ill luck for whoever was poisoning him… Er, what've you been doing all night? What is all that on your coat?"

It was currently six o'clock in the morning, the sun was not fully up and neither was John. He had been sound asleep when Sherlock called, telling him that a cab was secured below for his departure to St. Barts.

"Homicide Experiments with chalk." Sherlock smiled, clearly very excited about it. John raised his eyebrows.

Sometimes he thought back to the days before he had met Sherlock. What had he been doing with his life? It seemed like a hazy dream that he was missing long pieces of in his memory. He has just existed, suspended in boredom and discontent.

"I needed to use the lab when I was done with my experiments and happened to stop in just before Jason McKinney died. I wasn't there to see it unfortunately or even aware of what happened until he had been dead for almost three minutes but the circumstances were unusual enough that I thought we'd have a look at him. He was obviously murdered in an interesting enough way and I asked Molly to lay him out for me."

"I was about to leave for the night." Molly muttered as she covered the man back up.

"You're sure he was murdered? It sounds like he was possibly in a bad way with drugs and killed himself."

Sherlock shook his head. "Please John, think about it would you?" He flourished a hand impatiently. "He was old but dedicated to a strict routine for self-preservation. His lifestyle tells me was certainly _not_ a frequent drug user. He never would have ingested so much Tylenol on purpose that his liver would be failing and somehow he had been receiving enough heroin in his system to keep up with numbing the growing pain prior to his death. Everyone knows not to take more than four thousand milligrams in a day and he was getting almost seven thousand somehow. He died of a stroke because he panicked when he began to feel the pain from the acute liver failure, which means that the heroin wore off. He realized that something was desperately wrong with him. He wasn't at home when this happened and he did not own a cell phone. It was late evening which begs the question of what he was doing out when he must have been in bad condition all around. It must have been important, whatever it was."

Sherlock paused for a moment, considering the thought. "Of course, when he started feeling in pain, he _panicked_." He threw up his hands, making John jump. "He ran until he reached St. Bart's, not his usual doctor's office but obviously the closest medical facility to him with an emergency room. Whoever he was visiting was close by. At his age it would be easy for extreme stress to cause him to have a stroke. In the time that it took Molly to do the autopsy I was able to get in contact with his nurse and care physician and obtain his medical records."

"Obtain? You mean you stole them." John said, with voice thick with reproach. "Sherlock_"

"What does it _matter? _He's_ dead._"

"Oh never mind. What about his family?" John asked.

Sherlock paused, making a face. "They haven't been told yet. I was wondering if_"

John cut him off. "No. What? _No_! Absolutely not."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You would like to get breakfast?"

John almost gasped with relief. "Yes. Good. I'd love to." Behind him, Molly frowned. Sherlock was prone to ignoring it but John couldn't help feel mildly embarrassed when her jealousy became plain.

"What did you think I was going to say?" Sherlock asked.

"I thought_ you were going to ask me to tell the family that Jason McKinney was killed."

Sherlock laughed. "No, of course not. The hospital is not going to inform the family of his death for exactly six more hours."

John stared at him. "Huh, what? Why?"

"It took some persuading but in the end they condoned to it. This is an investigation. We need information from the family first. We'll get more reliable information if they believe he's alive."

John made a face. "Is that even allowed?"

Sherlock spoke quickly. "For his age he was beyond healthy and took a lot of precaution to stay that way. He would have lived to be a hundred and ten easily if he kept it up and someone apparently didn't want him to. I've spoken with the doctor and for now they are preparing to inform the family that he died of natural causes. We need to see who benefits from his death. It will most definitely help if they don't know he's dead for a few more hours."

John looked thoughtful and Sherlock knew he had won. "Okay. So we're looking for the motive." John said.

"_Yes._ It could dramatically change the dynamics of the case if the murderer knew that we were onto him or her. Come on."


	2. Chapter 2 - Ruse of a Relationship

**Chapter 6**

**Ruse Of A Relationship**

The sun was peaking over the slated London rooftops by the time they pulled up to the house.

"What exactly are we going to say to them Sherlock?" John asked.

"Not them. Only one other person lives here. Most likely we're not going to say anything right now. We're just taking a look around."

"How do you know no one's home?"

Sherlock gave the door a few hard raps. When no one answered he went around to the side fence and lifted the rust laden latch. John followed close behind. The side yard was a mess of overgrown plants and extended into a spacious back yard with a large greenhouse off to the left hand side. John caught his foot on the side of an empty wooden crate as he came around the corner and nearly fell. As he stumbled, Sherlock reached out to steady him.

"Thanks" John said, steadying himself. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. He was staring at the label on the crate. It read _Hemming's Produce_.

"What is it?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. The hurried onto the porch and John watched as Sherlock fiddled with the door. He heard a soft click. They were inside in moments and John followed behind as Sherlock ghosted through the house, cataloging information.

He checked the fridge, the cupboards and the trash. He inspected the bathroom, taking quick samples of anything that would be used daily. He checked the medicine cabinet, finding herbal supplements but no medication bottles at all. They were about to journey up stairs when John heard the crackle of a car slowing across gravel.

"Sherlock! The resident is home!" He called in a hushed voice. He hurried towards the back door and a quick glance back told him that Sherlock was right on his tail. As they were leaving Sherlock swiped a paper bag off the counter and opened the fridge.

"Are you nicking _groceries_?" John asked in disbelief, eyebrows furrowing.

"I'm _bagging_ groceries." He muttered as he loaded it up with an assortment of home grown fruits and vegetables. He set it on the counter beside the fridge. John furrowed his brow in confusion. They heard the front door click.

"Step lively John." Sherlock said, hurrying out the back.

As quickly and silently as they had arrived they were gone; across the yard, past the greenhouse and over the fence as the resident entered the home.

"Sometimes I feel as if I'm getting far too comfortable with breaking and entering. I blame you." John confided to Sherlock as they started walking. Sherlock grinned wildly.

"We have a moment to kill. So, what were you able to deduce from that little excursion?" He asked, stopped at the street corner.

John thought for a moment. "You were right about the gardening. Also about being close to his family. He certainly has a lot of pictures of his brother, even more than his wife."

Sherlock's face went blank for a moment "Oh!" and then he was snorting back a laugh.

"What? If you're going to make fun every time you ask me what I think_"

"No, John. You're brilliant, thank you for calling that to my attention. Never mind it. I'm sorry, continue please." Sherlock's expression instantly changed from laughing to serious, as if John couldn't see right through him. He huffed quietly.

"Okay. Fine. They have a cat. That cat recently had a trip to the vet. McKinney's wife gets on him about tracking dirt in from the garden but he does it often anyways."

"Good, very good John." Sherlock commended. John sensed sarcasm.

"Right. Hm." John sighed. "They are very well off financially. No one owns those kinds of natural, herbal products and shops at high end grocery stores and buys paper towels like that if they're not."

Sherlock gave a quick sideways nod. "Mmm, that's a start. Come on, he's had a moment to get settled and put the tea on. Let's go have a word. Follow my lead." They turned the corner, walked back up the steps and knocked on the front door. A paunchy gentleman in his sixties opened it, wearing a white collar button up, blue trousers and a utility belt. Sherlock put on his best false cheer and stepped up to shake the man's hand.

"Hello, you must be Earl McKinney? I'm Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson," He smiled. "We're friends of Jason's from church." John gave him a quick sideways look.

Earl frowned. "Haven't seen you there before."

"Last week was the first service we attended; he said you were at the vet." Sherlock smiled and removed something from his coat pocket. John saw that he'd nicked one of the church fliers from the late Jason McKinney's pocket. "A week or so before that he gave me this."

"Oh, right." The man said, staring down at the pamphlet. "I _was_ at the vet, wasn't I? What can I do you both?"

Sherlock feigned surprised. "Oh, I'm so sorry. You see, after the service Jason talked a bit about his gardening and offered to help us out with a bag of the fresh produce he's grown. We've been in a tight spot financially. He told us to come over this morning, I thought he'd be here or would have told you."

"Oh, _oh_ of course. Please, come in. Yes he does that often. Forgets to tell me these things, I mean. He's actually been out for a terrible long time now that I think about it..." Earl waved them inside. John and Sherlock took up the plush velvet loveseat by the window while he went into the kitchen. John glanced at Sherlock, who was removing his gloves and stuffing them into a coat pocket.

"I don't know how I feel about this Sherlock." He whispered, leaning to speak in his friend's ear. Morally, pretending that a man was alive to his loved ones when you knew they actually weren't didn't strike John as something that was alright to do.

"Complain to me about it _later_." Sherlock whispered back. His warm breath tickled the side of John's neck he was so close. Just then, Earl came back out carrying the bag Sherlock had filled scarcely ten minutes before.

"He left it out where I could find it at least; didn't bother to leave as much as a bloody note though." He seemed disgruntled as he set down a kettle and three cups at the table and took his seat in the recliner across from them.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked, a look of utmost concern on his face.

The old man sighed. "You know, he's been rather ill actually. I've been out at a bible retreat for the week. Got home yesterday morning and he was abed all day. Wouldn't eat when I tried to feed him up. I left for work in the evening and he didn't so much as say goodbye. I get home this morning and he's gone, hasn't left a note. Our relationship isn't _nearly_ as close as it once was but I_know_ when he's not right. He was fine when I left but he hasn't been fine since I've come back from that trip. I know it. We've been married for twenty three years for God's sake."

John's head darted up from his teacup. "Married? For twenty three years?" He asked as his eyebrows rose. He wanted to kick Sherlock when he saw the corners of his mouth give the slightest twitch. It never ceased to amaze John how Sherlock could get people to open up when he wanted to but now he felt like an idiot. He had thought there were more pictures of Jason McKinney's brother than of his wife, however now it seemed like it was more pictures of his husband than of his sister.

"Twenty three years is a lifetime. I can hardly imagine." Sherlock said to Earl so sincerely that John almost believed him.

The old gentleman sighed, shadows overtaking his eyes. He blinked it away and put on a smile. "And how long has it been for you two?" He asked, nodding between John and Sherlock. John opened his mouth but Sherlock spoke first. He needed the man to open up and he needed to give him a reason to. To him, it was logical and spoke it without another thought.

"Almost two years. I daresay I've never been happier in my life." He replied, radiating warmth from his smile.

John barely had time to think _–HangOnWhatAreYouDoing-_ before Sherlock reached an arm around his waist and pulling him close. Sherlock felt John's shoulders stiffen and watched the blood rush to his face. All John could manage was a short smile and nod. He was powerfully aware of the feeling of their legs now pressed together, the body heat between them and the firm but gentle grip that Sherlock held him in.

Earl instantly smiled but his eyes were sad. He sighed. "Oh, I miss it. The youth, the affection, the energy that you both take for granted so much. Jason's one for keeping healthy and staying strong. I'm afraid I just can't keep up with him. Often I feel that it's what has been driving us apart." He paused. "Sorry to bother you with all this. The ramblings of an old man."

"No, please, go on. It's no trouble at all." Sherlock said, releasing John from his hold and leaning forwards towards the man. John breathed out loudly. Sherlock glanced at him. John had a fixed look on his face. _Had he been holding his breath? _Sherlock wondered.

"It's just that he's been very distant lately and I've been worried. Always off on his bike to some event, helping with the church, meeting people. He's so active. I don't sleep at night, so I work grave yard shifts at the used car lot down the street, watching the cameras to keep myself occupied in my old age. When I get home I muddle about for a bit but he's often gone. The only place we really have seen each other lately is at the congregation on Sundays. That's where he spends most of his time, at the church. Then he comes home, drinks his god awful health tea and goes to bed before I have much of a chance to see him."

Sherlock nodded. His eyes brightened. "You can't mean _this_ tea?" He asked, lifting his cup.

Earl shook his head. "That bloody awful Kumbacha tea. He imports it fresh. Drinks it three times a day and swears it will keep him young forever. I can't tolerate the stuff."

"May I use your restroom?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Through the kitchen, down the hall and it's on your left."

John watched as Sherlock swept out of the room. There was silence. John fidgeted awkwardly.

"You're a lovely couple. Are you both planning on coming back to worship this weekend?" Earl asked, staring at John.

"Thank you. I don't know if we are, haven't talked to Sherlock about it yet." John said stiffly. He glanced down at the empty seat beside him and picked up the Church pamphlet that Sherlock had left there. Obviously on purpose, John thought. Across the top it said "Delmar's Chapel" and below that "The Lord Loves All" in boldface letters. _Oh hullo. It's a congregation for anyone. Straights, Gays, transsexuals, stereotyped ethnicities, it's a non-discriminatory Church. Well that's good I suppose._ John thought as he flicked through the pamphlet. He glanced back up to find Earl still staring at him.

"I understand how you feel." The old man said.

"Sorry?" John asked.

"When I first met Jason it was very hard for me to open up and be myself with him around company. It was that way for a long time. Before Jason, I had a type. It was blond, bubbly and female. After I met him, everything changed and it took a long time to accept that in myself. I can see it in you too, how you hesitate. I can also see the bond you have with each other. That's a beautiful thing, love. I do miss it." He said.

The blood drained from John's face as he forced a smile. What a situation. He honestly had no idea how to respond and could really only focus on the loud pounding that was clouding his ears. Then Sherlock was back.

"We'd best be off. Oh, Mr. McKinney, I was wondering…" Sherlock paused, putting on his best look of genuine curiosity. "I've heard that the church helps families in need and they receive donations from Hemming's Produce. Is that right?"

John frowned, wondering what Sherlock was on about.

"Yes, that's right. I believe it's Hemming's, anyways… Jason brings home the empty crates to hold his vegetables when he takes them to sell. If you'll be needing it, I'd be happy to speak to our minister for you. I could introduce you. She'd add you to her chart and you'd get a bag or two of canned goods, dairy product and vegetables every week on Mondays."

Sherlock smiled sweetly. "We may just have to take you up on that, thank you."

With that, gave John a quick nod, indicating that it was time to go. The moments that followed were vague. Sherlock was shaking Earl's hand. John was shaking his hand. He picked up the bag of groceries. They were out the door, through the gate and looking for a cab to pick them up. John was having a difficult time thinking. They were in the cab, heading back to Baker Street. Inside, Mrs. Hudson happily accepted the groceries and prattled about something that John didn't hear. They went upstairs.

"What the _hell_ Sherlock?" John said as soon as the door closed.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, removing his coat and throwing himself down on the couch. He opened his laptop.

"You couldn't have warned me?"

Sherlock didn't even glance up. "For god's sake John, you really need to work on your improvising skills. You played your part terribly."

John sputtered. "I,_ What? No, I was just saying if you're going to pull something like that maybe can you just let me in on it next time."

"I'm saying that I was testing how fast you could adjust to playing an uncomfortable roll in an unpredictable situation and you need to work on your game face. _Problem?_" Sherlock glanced up from the screen and John saw that he was completely serious.

"Testing? Testing." He repeated loudly. His tone was noticeably offended. "No. You know what. It's fine. Whatever. Just get on with it then. Explain what all that was about."

Sherlock was focused on the glowing screen, completely unfazed by John's irate attitude. "Jason McKinney, a man in his late sixties, was having an affair. It was as plain as the nose on your face."

"What? An affair? How did you sponge that up?" John scratched the back of his head. Sherlock's eyes snapped up to meet his.

"_Spongewhat?"_ He said, squinting.

"Sponge that up. You know, a sponge soaks things up. So do you. Never mind."

"John, Information is neither dirt nor a water based solution and my brain is _not _cellulose wood fibers or foamed plastic polymers." He said, unamused. "Do shut up for a bit, I need to think."

"Think? You're not going to explain to me_ you know what. You are a spectacular dick. I'm going out." John announced, turning towards the door.

"Going? Going where?" Sherlock asked, looking up again in bewilderment.

John ran a hand through his hair. "For a walk, I suppose." He turned and left.

Sherlock stared back down at his laptop. He quickly reviewed the situation at hand. Time passed as his thoughts became reality. He got up and began to pace, losing himself inside. The room was too messy; it was making it harder to think. The clutter was causing noise in his brain. He ventured to his room. Worse. The kitchen was unbearable at the moment.

He continued to wander through the house until he found a tidy space where his thoughts could be freed. His mind cleared. He focused. The clarity and speed at which his mind had the ability to function at enabled him to reach calculations that normal people could only obtain through extreme mental dedication with all the information laid in front of them physically.

He boggled at how ordinary people could spend hours staring at answers that were in front of their faces and not even realize it. As he reviewed the encounter with Earl McKinney his mind wandered back to the redness in John's face, the stiffness in his shoulders and the fixed, blank expression he wore as Sherlock played the part of his romantic partner. Briefly, it occurred to him that it may have been rude not to have informed John when he realized that the Jason and Earl were gay and the attended a church that was mainly populated by couples of that nature. _Whatever._ His mind went back to the situation at hand. Glancing up, Sherlock realized that by now the family had been informed of Jason's death. It was nearly six in the evening.

"Could you put the kettle on?" Sherlock called. There was no answer. John had left hours ago. Sherlock pulled out his phone and absent mindedly sent a text.

:Where are you? I need you. -SH

A moment later his phone buzzed.

You need me for… -JW

For help with some experiments. Also, to put on tea. –SH

There was no reply for several minutes before Sherlock texted again.

Please? -SH

Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairway. He heard John walking about the flat, looking for him. A few moments later John's footsteps tromped up the next flight of stairs. He walked through the door and frowned at Sherlock, who was lying on his back across the edge of John's bed, legs crossed and arms supporting his head.

"You weren't far." Sherlock said.

"Actually I was down stairs helping Ms. Hudson fix the pantry. Why are you in my _bedroom_?"

"I needed to think. Put the kettle on?" Sherlock asked. He pulled a small box out of his pocket and threw it at John.

"Why in my _bedroom_? What's this then?" He held up the box.

"That is Kumbacha tea. I nicked it out of McKinney's kitchen before we left. Your bedroom is currently the only quiet, tidy spot in the flat. I needed to focus my mind and the clutter was causing an unbearable noise that I couldn't get around."

"You could have just cleaned. That's what normal people do when it's messy. You think that he was being poisoned with this?" John asked.

"Could be. If it's as disgusting as we were lead to believe it could have easily masked the taste of the drugs."

John put the kettle on. Sherlock sat up on the couch.

"We need to interview the late Mr. McKinney's boyfriend. He was having an affair. We also need to interview his sister."

"Why his boyfriend?" John asked.

"To find out what he was really like. That was a secret romance. If we can get him to open up about it we will most likely find other things out that his family was unaware of."

"You know who it is?"

"After a bit of research, yes. His name is William Benford, fifty four years old. He lives in a flat near Postman's Park, which happens to be a stone's throw from St. Barts."

"Right. So he was either coming or leaving Benford's house when he died. We should probably visit the church too." John said. "If he was that involved in it they'll probably make room to have a memorial for him this Sunday."

Sherlock nodded. "Good, yes. When is Sunday?"

"You don't know the days of the week?" John said flatly.

"I don't keep track unless it matters."

"It's Friday."

"Good. Perfect. We'll give the family a night to rest and time for the word of the death to get around and interview the sister and boyfriend in the morning. Shall we?"

John nodded.

"We haven't anything else we're working on and sometimes timing is crucial to the development of a case. At the moment, we can't see a motive. That will become distinctly more apparent after the news has had time to get around."

"The most obvious motive is inheritance? John asked.

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "The obvious is that he was killed by a family member to gain his inheritance. He's obviously wealthy. Based on the way he was killed however I'm not entirely certain yet about the family. Not good to jump to conclusions John. In fact, I'm not sure it was even about his inheritance."

John frowned, waiting for Sherlock to explain.

"What do you mean?" He asked. "Why else would he be killed?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I have a theory."

"Which is what? And what were you on about when you asked the name of the company delivering the donated produce?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him and returned to the topic of the murder.

"To keep anyone from being suspicious the death would need to look like natural causes. This death did not look anywhere near like natural causes. Only an idiot would believe that he had purposefully ingested that much Tylenol and heroin. Do you understand?"

"Not really." John said. "You're saying the killer didn't want it to look like an accident? He wants to be caught?"

"It would appear so. Or else it was a poorly, obviously plotted murder."

"Maybe the killer is just that stupid."

"A person who was expecting money wouldn't risk killing someone close to them unless they were sure they would get away with it but this was so downright obviously a murder that it must have been meant to be seen as one. A framing, possibly? What we don't know is what he was leaving to whom. That is what we need to find out."

"Might be downright obviously a murder to you. If you hadn't been on it, it might have passed unnoticed." John reminded him.

"No, the cause of death would have been brought up to Earl. He would have known something was amiss and put in a request for an investigation."

The kettle was boiling and Sherlock had John begin helping him with some tests to determine if there were drugs or anything unusual in the teabags. After about a half an hour of setting up the equipment and an hour of trying, the results came up negative for everything that Sherlock could think to test for. When they were sure it was safe it was decided that the tea should be tasted personally. John refused to taste it if Sherlock would not also. They each leaned into their cups, taking a hesitant sip before running to the sink to spat it back out.

"That _is_ god awful." John said, hunched over the sink. He spat again, rinsed his mouth and went to put a new kettle on for their Earl Gray.

"The aftertaste is worse. Like vinegar." Sherlock was making a face into his cup. He sniffed it again and shook his head. When Sherlock looked up he saw John watching him from across the kitchen. The corners of Sherlock's mouth began to twitch and they broke into a fit of giggles.

They proceeded to test the shampoo, conditioner, soap and toothpaste samples that Sherlock had collected from the bathroom. It was a long, tedious process.

As the last results showed negative Sherlock groaned in frustration and over-armed his safety goggles across the room.

"There are still a lot of options." John told Sherlock.

"No_, there are not_." He practically yelled. "I would have been astounded if there had been anything in the bathroom supplies anyways."

"Why's that?" John asked. "It's happened before."

"Yes, in an instance where more than was person was being poisoned." Sherlock rolled his eyes, thinking of the case that John had named 'The Speckled Blonde'.

"In this instance, the only target was Jason McKinney. The killer needed to be able to poison him in a way that wouldn't harm anybody else. The only possible option for poisoning _only_ him would be the tea because from what his husband said, he drinks it constantly and no one else does."

"For good reason." John muttered.

"This should lead me to think that it was his husband who killed him. He has the motive. Jason was having an affair that that he knew about."

John frowned. "And why do you think he knew?"

"It was obvious. All the mention of being young and in love, it was nostalgic and strained. Also the attention he paid to us when I_" Sherlock paused, his cheeks turning faintly pink. "Well, you know."

"Yeah, it's fine." John said, looking away. He feels his stomach tighten and tries to put it out of his mind. Somehow, when he was alone on his walk earlier that day he realized that the memory kept creeping up on him. The details had been turning through his mind on repeat until he'd realize he was thinking about it and become irate all over again. He scuffed the ground with his shoe.

"He was looking at our romance with longing. The way he talked about growing distant, his mannerisms and body language when he was talking to us. He was jealous of our ruse of a relationship." Sherlock continued.

"Right. So he had the motive. He also most likely has a decent bit of inheritance coming to him, after being married for twenty three years. Maybe he realized he would never live to see it because of Jason's spectacular elderly health."

"Yes. It's a possibility." Sherlock was thoughtful. He seated himself at the end of his chair, leaning forward to rest his chin over slightly trembling knuckles. John could tell that he was alive with energy. The firelight glinted off Sherlock's dark curls, sparked in his eyes and cast shadows over his pale, marble face.

"You said it _should_ lead you to think that he is the killer. Why did you say _should_?" John took the seat opposite of him, saucer in hand and took a tentative sip off his steaming cup.

"He's old. He's unmotivated. He's lonely enough that he treats us, complete _strangers_, as if we were old friends. He's growing steadily senile. He complains often but he's more content than he thinks he is. He's not an angry man, in fact he's very accepting. He has accepted that his husband who he loves was having an affair. He was able to reason that it is because he is no longer fit for the romance and lifestyle that his husband craved and allow him that happiness. Why, I cannot fathom. Also, did you notice, while he complained about the Jason McKinney not leaving a note of his departure that he still fluffed the pillows on his recliner and set the newspaper on the table beside it for him to read when he returned? Those are not behaviors of a man who knows that his husband is either dead or dying. He was expecting him to come home."

"Amazing." John grinned.

"Because of these observations I do not believe that Mr. McKinney is the culprit. Perhaps one of his children though. I hope to gather information about them from the sister tomorrow."

"Shall I order take-away then?" John asked.

"Just ask them to_"

"Put the chicken in a separate box from the Chow Mein. I know."

Sherlock glanced over, almost smiling.

"Sherlock," John said, breaking through Sherlock's wall of thought. "It'll to take them a half an hour to get here with the food. In the meantime we need to pick up. This mess is out of control." John said, sweeping his hand out in a disgusted gesture to their cluttered surroundings. "I can't have you hiding out in my bedroom every time you need to think."

Sherlock's voice was obnoxiously innocent and made John cross his arms as he spoke. "It's going to take them forty six minutes to get here actually. You have to calculate prep time, who is on shift, how busy it is on a Friday night and what the traffic is like from the shop to Baker Street at this hour."

The look John gave him was sour. He continued to stare until Sherlock sighed.

"Oh all right." He snapped, rising to his feet. He began to clear the table.

After dinner they spent the rest of the quiet evening watching crap telly and working side by side on their computers. John would choose horrible reality shows and mystery flicks just for the amusement of watching Sherlock kick the ground with his heel and yell in frustration at the people when he took a moment to watch. Sherlock poked fun at John's blog, reading over his shoulder as he wrote. John ignored a call from his sister. Mrs. Hudson came up to spend a while with them, hinting about Mrs. Turner's complaints about the noise from their flat and asking if John would help her fix up her cabinets more in the morning. Eventually he retired to bed.

The next morning Mrs. Hudson brought up hot biscuits, left over sausage pieces and made a kettle. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen but John had already showered, shaved and was in the process of organizing their case files while he waited for his friend's return. Mrs. Hudson bustled around, pouring the tea and leaving a jar of Marmite beside him with a knife.

She commented that before John moved in Sherlock wouldn't clean until the mess was absolute chaos and he couldn't stand it any longer. She said that she could always tell when he'd done cleaning by the way he meticulously organized his work equipment. John peered into the kitchen, confused. Sherlock has done only cleaned a single counter and part of the table in the entire time that it had taken for their dinner to arrive. Now every counter top was cleared and scrubbed, every piece of lab equipment put away, not a single jar of strange unmentionable substance was left out.

John thought that Sherlock must have run out of case work and gotten bored, to do all that and really wasn't surprised that Sherlock hadn't slept. Glancing at the time, he was startled that he had lain in bed so late. John explained some of the details of their current case to Mrs. Hudson as she pattered around, absent mindedly dusting and straightening.

Not long after he had moved in Mrs. Hudson came to the conclusion that she enjoyed John as a tenant, approved of Sherlock's choice in a partner and was very happy for them. She smiled thinking about it as John animatedly explained Sherlock's deductions. He had just been about to mention how Sherlock had omitted the information about Mr. McKinney being gay and ask what Mrs. Hudson thought of all that when the door banged open.

"Speak of the devil." John muttered to her, smiling as her eyes crinkled with mirth.

"Sherlock, you've done a lovely job in the kitchen!" She praised as he whisked into the room, alive with electric energy.

"Hm? Yes I know, thank you Mrs. Hudson." He threw off his coat and tossed a folder into John's lap.

"I take it you've been busy?" He said, putting away the newspaper and picking up the folder.

"Up all night. I needed to gain a lot of information this morning and to do so it was necessary to convince Martha Alistair, Jason's sister, that I knew him personally. So, I went to the trouble of visiting the house again while Earl McKinney was out in the night. He'd gone to stand vigil at the chapel, mourning his husband's death. Old fashioned tradition, but useful in this case because I was able to help myself to all the information I needed to be convincing."

John opened his mouth to speak but Mrs. Hudson cut him off.

"Sherlock!" She gasped. "That's a bit insensitive, don't you reckon?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not when you're out to catch a killer, Mrs. Hudson. Remember, I have an apparently noble reason for needing to commit petty crimes such as breaking and entering.

"I hope you haven't nicked anything." John said as he opened the file. He squinted down at the photos. "Sherlock… How the hell did you do _this_?" He held up a photograph of what he was sure was Sherlock posing beside Jason McKinney outside the farmer's market where he sold his produce.

"Yes thank you John, rub it in, I know did a _terrible_ job. I was pressed for time to return the original photos to the house before McKinney came home. Anyone with the barest photo shopping skills could tell that it was a fake. Thankfully, his sister is old and could not tell the difference in the slightest. He's quite a bit younger in this photograph so I was easily able to convince her that I had known him for years. She opened up quite a bit and I found much of the information that I needed, though I had to be exhaustingly patient through her ruddy, sentimental grieving."

John shook his head. He certainly couldn't tell that it was a fake, though he decided not to admit it. He couldn't tell if Sherlock was serious about thinking it was a terrible job or if he was fishing for compliments. Really, was there anything that the man couldn't do?

Mrs. Hudson was having none of it. She scolded Sherlock lightly and made it clear that she needed to leave the room before she heard any more.

"Yes, well. I now know that Earl McKinney is getting the house and enough of the family fortune to keep him comfortable for his remaining days. The children are all getting fair portions and the sister got a bit. What's interesting is that the bloody _church_ is who Jason left the majority to, over a three hundred thousand pounds. It's intended to go out to needy families and all that. None of the family is really getting enough to kill for. None of them have outstanding debts that would require them to receive their inheritance this soon and it would appear that they all cared deeply for their father."

"So, you don't have a suspect then?" John asked. "Have you talked to Lestrade about any of this? Because I feel like he should know."

"Why is that?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, we haven't exactly been employed to help with this case Sherlock. By the police or by the victim or anyone he knows."

"I'm trying to save him the trouble of getting all worked up over it. You know he's been busy failing to catch that dammed furniture burglar_"

John chuckled. There was a series of odd burglaries that was going on which Sherlock refused to help with, attacking the very frustrated Lestrade with a thesaurus of words that all either meant stupid or boring because no one was being killed. The burglar was somehow entering populated homes in the middle of the night, getting past locks and alarms of all kinds and getting away with expensive, sometimes large pieces of furniture without the family so much as waking up.

"At any rate, he's that going on and at the moment we don't need him for anything. I told Molly that I would fill him in when it became necessary. It took a bit of persuading but she's gone along with it. It will be like a Christmas present to him when we've solved it and we can avoid dealing with him and his team in the meantime."

John couldn't help it as another laugh bubbled up in his throat. "I don't know that Lestrade will see it that way Sherlock, you should at least text him."

"That would spoil the fun. Are you ready to go? We must speak with William Benford."

"Hang on, you've been home barely five minutes. Sit down and eat, just a few bites Sherlock. You can't keep running on fumes." John pushed a plate towards him. Sherlock rolled his eyes, lifted a biscuit off the plate, topped it with sausage and stuffed it in his mouth.

"Happy?" He said thickly through the mouthful.

John watched him trying to chew the enormous bite.

"Fair enough."


	3. Chapter 3 - Alarm Bells Don

**Chapter 7**

**Alarm Bells Don't Ring**

"Can you give me an idea of the angle we're going for with this one or will you leave me to improvise again?" John asked. Sherlock only smirked.

"Right. I suppose that would be asking a lot." John muttered matter-of-factly and he picked up his pace, matching Sherlock's long strides with two of his own.

"If you must know, we are interviewing him as members of Scotland Yard. He's not connected to the Church that Jason attended, nor to his family so it has a small chance of getting out to them that Jason was murdered and I believe the risk is worthwhile because we will get cleaner results if we are direct with him."

"Right. Good. I'd rather work under an illegal fraudulent identity than repeat what we did yesterday." John said.

"You realize you're letting it bother you far more than it actually does purely from an illogical fear of being seen blurring the lines of your sexuality, even if it was for the purpose of a case." Sherlock spat. "Honestly, if I didn't know you there's a strong possibility I wouldn't have been able to deduce the difference in your increased heart rate, gently quaking fingers and maidenly blush between enjoyment or extreme discomfort. Thankfully, our host, who knows nothing about your strong sense of heterosexuality, saw it as the former rather than the latter. If there is a next time, try to remember that it is _me_ you are dealing with and make a little effort to act the part."

"_Maidenly blush?"_ John repeated, outraged. It _had_ been extreme discomfort he'd felt, _hadn't it_? "You caught me off guard and I didn't know how to react. I'm not like _you_; I have a harder time switching into roll playing mode on a dime, especially in a situation like that."

They had come to a halt on the sidewalk's edge, surrounded by an empty looking neighborhood where the buildings spoke of wealth and well to do dwellers. John crossed his arms and gave Sherlock the look that he could clearly read as John's _'I Am So Done'_ face. Sherlock remained stubborn.

"Well, if you're done chastising me for incompetently informing you of my intentions, invading your personal space and not caring that you apparently suffered minor emotional trauma from the situation I suggest that we carry on. We are at our destination."

John lowered his head, pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath. "You _always_ have to have the last word." He muttered before looking up. "For the record I am _not_ traumatized and you know it, you're just being a prat, I was only annoyed and I told you it was _fine, _Sherlock. I'm not even sure now exactly how this even got brought up again."

Sherlock opened his mouth and John jumped to stop him before he could start. "No, no, you don't need to_ This conversation is dead, buried and rotting. Let's go."

"Whatever you say, my dear Doctor Watson."

"_Sherlock."_ John growled. Sherlock flipped his coat collar up dramatically and took a long stride forward.

"So, we need gauge William's reaction to Jason's death. Chances are he has not heard yet. One of the easiest ways to eliminate a suspect or pin a murderer is to be the first to inform them of the death and observe their reaction. The majority of people cannot fake it correctly. Even pure psychopaths will display at least two if not more of the obvious, incriminating tells. I have observed it all countless times. It is difficult for them to falsify the intense caliber of grief and emotions that one who is truly devastated by a loss would feel."

"Yes okay, you've explained all that before." John said. He knew a few of the 'tells' that Sherlock was referring to but lacked the intense observational skills it took to pick out the subtle actions that gave even the best liars away. He had seen Sherlock completely dismantle a murderer based on what he called a "very slightly overreacted" display of grief. If John's intuition wasn't as reliable as he always found it to be he may have been fooled into thinking that the man was truly devastated. However, his gut feeling told him the man was guilty. He couldn't pick out exactly why the way Sherlock could, see through it in a heartbeat purely by observing.

"If he hasn't heard the bad news, try to be delicate in breaking it to him." John asked.

"How do you mean?" Sherlock replied.

"Well you're not exactly tactful. You have a tendency to be insensitive at best and completely offensive at worst."

Sherlock frowned.

"It_ It might just be easier if I did it." John said and reached up to give the knocker a few firms taps.

William Benford was a short, fairly trim man with hazel eyes and long ashy locks that looked as though it had once been a brilliant chestnut brown, before age began to take hold. Now it was nearly consumed with grey. He wore an expensive looking cashmere sweater and nicely tailored jeans. Sherlock and John introduced themselves. Sherlock briefly displayed Lestrade's D.I. identification and were invited inside to a bright, spacious apartment.

They were seated in the living area which was barren of both a tea table and a lamp stand. Instead, there were two large wooden crates on either side of the posh recliner where William sat. On one there was a fancy stained brass antique lamp and other the other a tea tray that sat sadly with a cold forgotten breakfast arranged upon it.

Sherlock noticed briefly that there were four square indentations in the carpet in front of the sofa where he and John sat, indicated that not long ago some other piece of furniture had rested. John was a bit bewildered when Mr. Benford inquired if they had any news concerning the furniture but quickly realized that sitting before them was apparently another victim of Lestrade's Furniture Burglar. Sherlock quickly explained that the furniture was not what they were there to discuss.

They witnessed the man's turn of confusion at their presence and then sat quietly through his true shock and despair when John delivered the news. Sherlock was poor at displaying sympathy and did his best to wait patiently for John to calm and sooth the man until he was able to speak properly. Finally, after an awkward, long embrace that John had originally intended to be a sympathetic pat on the back the man took a deep breath and left momentarily to find a handkerchief to blow his nose.

"Christ, the bloody _weird_ things I've got to do sometimes…" John said quietly to Sherlock as he stretched his sleeve over his hand and used it to wipe away the bodily fluids of sorrow left on his shoulder from the grieving man's embrace.

"You would avoid being used as a handkerchief-slash-commiseration apparatus if you would only display _less_ compassion verbally and _more_ inhospitable body language. I certainly wouldn't have put up with that and he certainly wouldn't have tried it." Sherlock drawled back.

John gave him a withering look. "Yes, of course he wouldn't because _you've_ got a great, dodgy wall around you that gives people the feeling like they would be better off trying to receive condolences from an unpinned hand grenade."

"They would be right." Sherlock retorted quickly.

Mr. Benford returned, seating himself across from them.

"How did you know to come to me?" He asked them quietly, his voice shaking. "As far as I'm aware, no one that Jason knows has any notion that I exist and even if they did they certainly wouldn't know that I mean anything to him. There's no other way you would be here though if you weren't aware of our relationship. Who was it who knew about us?"

"No one." Sherlock replied. "I observed the brand new, unopened greenhouse humidifier hidden in the closet of his study that was obviously an anniversary gift but based on the kitchen calendar it was nowhere near the time of the McKinney's anniversary. It was obviously a gift otherwise it would have been enthusiastically installed upon delivery, it was not close to his birthday and an expensive present like that is not gifted on a whim. People don't often spend hundreds of dollars themselves on a piece of equipment only to let it sit around. As thoughtful as it was, he had actually replaced his old humidifier with the latest model a week prior to receiving your gift which is in fact a bit out of date. Of course he didn't mention it because he didn't want to hurt your feelings."

John cringed at the bluntness of Sherlock's words, watching William's crestfallen face begin to tear up again. Sherlock continued, unfazed.

"Due to the circumstances of the investigation Mr. McKinney's emails were also examined which is how your name was discovered. Though he made every effort to be secretive, his password was eventually deduced from the contents of his shoe cabinet. He would never write it down, seeing as his faith and reputation did not resonate with the nature of his actions when it came to his fidelity. However, Earl McKinney was long aware that his husband was having an affair. He remains unaware of whom it was with."

Mr. Benford sniffled into his handkerchief, looking dazed.

"I can't imagine anyone who would want him dead. He _was_ ill all last week though. First he said it was just a head cold. Then he said it must be the flu. I've never known him to be sick before. He called he said not to worry and that once the fever broke it was nothing that he couldn't sweat out with a good run. He was a determined man. He left a note under my door a few nights ago to say he was missing me too much to stay away and that he had taken the opportunity to come when his husband was at work.. It was very late. I happened to be away for the night." He said finally. John asked if he could have a look at the note and Mr. Benford told him it was pinned to the fridge, right down the hall.

"I would rather you didn't take it, please." He said. John nodded as he walked away.

"I'll take a photograph." He said.

"You can't think of anyone who didn't like him? Anyone who held a grudge against him? Anyone who would benefit from his death?" Sherlock pressed.

"His family loved him. I loved him. Everyone at his congregation loved him. He was respected and admired. Always receiving little odd thank you notes and occasionally little gifts for his work at the church. His minister even imported him a box of his favorite tea after he spent a weekend of handing out bibles and fliers at Harrods. He was well looked after."

Upon entering the room, John caught the look Sherlock threw him and understood. "Would you happen to know the name of his minister?" He asked.

"Her first name is Bianca. I don't know if I ever knew her last name."

"Can you tell us how long ago she gifted him that tea?"

Mr. Benford frowned. "I'm not sure. Possibly two weeks ago, maybe less than that. All I remember is him mentioning he was overstocked with it now and it didn't retain its potency for more than a few weeks. He meant to leave it at his sister's house, so that he could have it when he visited her. He went there almost every day."

"_Oh_." Sherlock said. He rose from his seat without another word of explanation.

"You're not leaving are you?" Mr. Benford cried as Sherlock bee lined for the door. "Will you tell me if you have a suspect? You haven't told me how he was killed!"

John explained quickly. "I'm sorry, at this point in the investigation it's important that the information you want stays confidential. We will keep you posted if anything important comes up. If you speak to anyone about this matter, keep it to yourself that his death was anything other than natural. If it gets out that he was murdered, the killer may flee and we may lose our chance to arrest and convict him or her. If you loved him, keep this to yourself so that we have the chance to bring him justice and know that you have the single best detective in the world working on your case." John grabbed his jacket off the coat rack and stepped to the front door, which Sherlock had left hanging open in his rush to continue.

Mr. Benford swallowed heavily and nodded. "Thank you."

"We are sorry for your loss. Just for safety purposes, keep your doors locked." John added and as Mr. Benford opened his mouth to speak, John closed the door on him. He threw his jacket on, adjusted the collar and turned to hurry after Sherlock. Instead he ran square into him, hard. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders to steady them both.

"Bloody hell, I thought you'd be halfway across town by now." John said, staring up into his face. Sherlock let his hands fall, bushing the sides of John's arms as they dropped. They were incredibly close, separated only by inches of thin, chilled air.

"I might have been but I thought I should wait. I know you like to give people_ closure? Is that it?"

John grinned quickly. "Yes, as wonderfully dramatic as it is to sweep wordlessly out the door, it's better not to leave the people you're investigating with a dozen questions. Doesn't mean you have to answer them, just give them a good reason not to be so curious that they ask others."

"Fair enough… Do you _really_ think I'm the best detective in the world?"

John huffed a laugh and ducked his head. "Of course I do, Sherlock." He glanced back up and felt his stomach flutter when he saw his friend was unable to contain an almost shy smile. Warmth poured from his eyes. John's face was starting to grow hot. He stepped back, putting a good food of distance between them and stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket. "Where are we off to now?"

In a flash the signature look of intense concentration sparked back in Sherlock's eyes and they began to walk, heading out of the neighborhood and onto a main street.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "We need to return to Martha Alistair's home. I _knew_ it was the tea. It didn't occur to me to look there."

"Do you think the killer was out to frame her?" John asked as he waved down a cab. He gave the driver the address climbed in as Sherlock spoke.

"No, there is no way that the killer could have predicted that he would leave it at his sister's house. In fact, the killer most likely intended for him to have it three times a day, following his routine. He was supposed to die slowly but not that slowly. It could have easily all gone wrong. When I asked his sister the last time she saw him, it was on Thursday evening. That dose was the catalyst for the start of his imminent organ failure. It was all that his body could take of the acetaminophen. He did not realize he was dying until the numbness caused by the drugs started to wear off that night. Once he began to feel it happening, which must have been on his walk home from Benford's, the adrenaline caused the pain to escalate fairly quickly, sobering him up. He got himself to the hospital nearest to Mr. Benford's home which happened to be St. Bart's. Even if he hadn't panicked and given himself a stroke he would have died anyways."

"That's an awful way to die." John said, shaking his head.

"It was too sloppy to be true. There are so many better ways to have done it. This was so obvious, using acetaminophen and heroin, two drugs that would show on the toxicity screening and point directly to murder. Had he not died of a stroke, he would have had the chance to talk to the nurses. He could have said something that would have pointed to the gift giver, Miss. Bianca. Only a colossal idiot would do that. The death was made to look like a murder disguised as an accident."

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Sorry, what?"

"The killer has set it all up to frame Miss. Bianca for the murder. It doesn't matter if the death was sloppy, it was supposed to be. Unless she really is a colossal idiot. I'm not ruling it out but with the current circumstances it's unlikely."

Their visit to Martha Alistair's house was brief. As it turned out, the old woman had gone to see her brother in law, leaving the house dark and locked. John searched the outside bins as Sherlock scanned the house. Among the garbage, John discovered two used tea bags with the Kumbacha label on them. He bagged them quickly and went up to buzz the door.

"Sherlock! I've got a couple, have you found anything?" He called through the buzzer. There was no reply. A moment later, he heard a loud crash on the side of the house and came around the corner to the consulting detective picking himself up off the ground. Two of the bins were tipped and garbage was spilled across the concrete.

"What are you doing?" John asked quizzically.

Sherlock glanced around, looking wild. He reached both hands up and ruffled his hair as he spoke. "There's an alarm and I've set it off, we'd best be going."

"What_ How? I don't hear anything." John sputtered as they took off running down the alley. He followed Sherlock over two fences and around the back of another building. Just before reaching the street Sherlock stopped short, putting a hand up that John ran into as he skidded to a halt.

"Pause for a moment." Sherlock muttered. A second later a police car passed, heading towards Mrs. Alistair's home. As it turned the corner, Sherlock and John stepped out onto the street.

"Most house alarms are silent, so as not to startle away a burglar before the police have a chance to get there." Sherlock said. His face was flushed.

John chuckled. "How'd you know you tripped the alarm?"

Sherlock grimaced. "It was a reasonable conclusion once I noticed that there _was_ an alarm. I had been in the house for exactly two minutes and if the alarm was set, I had exactly two more minutes until an officer would be at the house. I happened to be up-stairs at the time. The control panel is in the upper bedroom and I believe the monitors are hidden in the dining room, kitchen and hallway."

"Why'd you go out the window?"

"Precautionary measure." Sherlock looked embarrassed. "On the off chance I miscalculated the timing. I wasn't keen potentially meeting the police halfway down the stairs. I heard the doorbell buzz and it could only be you or a metropolitan officer. Botched the fall though, I slipped."

John laughed outright. "How many times have you actually been caught breaking and entering?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Perhaps once or twice, but not in a very long time."

As they journeyed back to the flat, Sherlock revealed the half full container of Kumbacha tea that he'd found set on the kitchen counter as well a small card that was still taped to the side of the box.

"Another reason I believe that Miss. Bianca is being set up." Sherlock said, pointing to the card.

"What, you don't think she wrote it?" John asked, leaning closer to squint at the writing. He glanced up to look at Sherlock while he spoke.

"I think she did write it. I don't think she delivered it. I think it was tampered with."

John nodded, leaning away. "You really believe _this_ woman was being set up then."

Sherlock cocked his head. "Riddle me this. What killer would attach a _hand written note_ to the murder weapon? Really John, of course she was being set up. Isn't it obvious?"

"I suppose when you put it like that, though I wouldn't think our Detective Inspector would see it that way." John provided.

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. I've had a hunch from the start that this case would require delicacy, hence why Lestrade is not involved at the moment. She wrote the card, gave the box and card to someone to deliver it and on the way they poisoned the tea and attached the note to ensure that if the box was found, the evidence would point back to her."

John noticed Sherlock's hand, rested beside his thigh on the seat in between them. His fingers were tapping restlessly. For a fleeting moment, John had the urge to reach out and still them. Quick as it had come, the feeling was gone and John looked up -to his embarrassment- to see Sherlock's piercing, inquisitive stare leveled at him. Thankfully, John was able to avoid any line of question that Sherlock may have been about to ask as the cabbie pulled up to the curb.

_What was he thinking?_ John wondered at the idea for a moment. It wasn't the first time something of that sort had crossed his mind. Once he had briefly considered reaching out to run a hand through his friend's hair as he sat puzzling endlessly over one of the Yard's cold cases. John had stopped himself. Another time he had caught himself reaching out to put an arm around Sherlock when he was frustrated with Mycroft to the point of being actually upset. He'd converted it into an awkward pat on the back. John thought that he seemed to have an innate desire to comfort and instill peace in his friend when he found him restlessness and full of angst. It was a reasonable thought.

Sherlock had been about to open his mouth and ask John what was on his mind when the cabbie pulled up to the curb. His flat mate had been staring down at the empty seat between with a gentle, pondering expression and suddenly seemed to come to his senses. In fact, if Sherlock wasn't mistaken and he usually wasn't, he thought that he'd caught a hint of embarrassment from John when they made eye contact. Sherlock realized vaguely that the seat wasn't actually empty and that John was actually watching the frantic metronome of Sherlock's fingers. Unsure of how to respond to the observation, he was grateful when the car came to a stop.

As the proceeded upstairs to the chilly, dormant flat, Sherlock wondered, not for the first time about the status of their relationship and what boundaries stood between them. It was moments like these that made him unsure. A few months prior to this, Sherlock had been frequently dreaming about John being kidnapped by Jim Moriarty. There had been times when John would enter his bedroom and use gentle words to sooth him out of near hysteria as he surfaced into the waking reality once more. More than once, -out of what Sherlock assumed was embarrassment- John had confirmed that Sherlock had specifically called for him.

A few times it had been John's voice, speaking slowly and calmly –_"Sherlock, I'm here. I'm alive. Everything's fine. You're safe, I'm safe, it's all fine."- _that had brought him to wake. When this happened Sherlock struggled to find the words to express his gratitude.

When John asked, Sherlock blamed the dreams on a subconscious fear of facing Jim Moriarty. He wasn't sure how to admit that though Moriarty was a large part of the dreams, the terror that he felt was centered on the fact that John's life was in danger and Sherlock was potentially helpless to save him. Sometimes when he awoke, sweating, cold and fearful he felt almost let down when John wasn't there.

Sometimes John would hear Sherlock call out in the night and not go to him, solely because of fear. What fear? That Sherlock would reject his comfort? Or that he would accept it? When he did venture down stairs, he stayed only long enough for Sherlock to wake. He resisted the urge to reach out to him. He merely reminded Sherlock that everything was fine and allowed him to confirm it before returning to his room.

Sometimes, when the screams were particularly bad, John resisted the urge to go to Sherlock because he was afraid that if he saw him in that kind of pain, he wouldn't be able to hold himself back. He was unsure and afraid of how the emotion would affect him or how he would react. It devastated him to hear it from the room below. He didn't know what he would do if he actually physically saw Sherlock in that much pain and fear.

"John?" Sherlock asked, shattering through the veil of John's thoughts and making him start.

"Mmm?" He replied, trying to recall what he'd been pondering. Sherlock was standing beside him, holding notepad in one hand and a vial of amber colored liquid in the other.

"Tomorrow morning I plan on attending the service at Delmar's. You're welcome to come, it would seem more convincing than if I attended alone_ though I understand if you would prefer not to." Sherlock says.

"Oh, right." John pondered the hesitance in Sherlock's voice and suddenly understands. It would require them to act as a couple once more. Earl McKinney would most likely be present.

John furrowed his brow, thinking about it. "It would probably seem a bit off if I weren't with you."

Sherlock gave a curt nod. "My thoughts exactly." With that, he turned and sauntered back to the kitchen, seating himself in front of his microscope.

John appreciated that Sherlock hadn't pushed it. The remainder of the night was quiet and John braced himself for the act he would take part in the following morning. What would he do to play the part of Sherlock's lover? What had he done before that caused Earl McKinney to believe that he loved Sherlock and that Sherlock loved him? It had surely gotten the man to open up about his own relationship with his husband. John hadn't done anything differently, as far as he knew. Vaguely it dawned on him that it was late and he was obviously over thinking it.


	4. Chapter 4 - Church and Estate

**Chapter 4**

**Separation of Church and Estate**

_When you go to bed pondering a thing, it crops up in your dreams and you'll find that you're still pondering when you wake up._ This was something that John's father used to tell him when he was bothered by something. When John awoke that morning, he lay there flat on his back and wondered if that's why Sherlock never slept during a case. Throughout the night, John had been caught in a hazy dream. He recalled small details until the memory of the dream and what had happened in it became blindingly clear once more. At one part of it, John had been on a date. Sally Donovan was there and she was speaking to him sharply. Her words were cutting and cruel. Somebody squeezed his hand. He was confused but reassured. Glancing to his left, he saw that it was Sherlock who was beside him. He expressed that he wanted to get away from Sally. He turned, leaning his head against Sherlock's chest and sighed as instant, immense warmth lightened in his heart. Long arms wrapped around him. He felt happy and comfortable…

"Jesus." John muttered, sitting up in bed. He shook off the thought, threw the covers away and reached for his bathrobe. It was still dark outside. He padded downstairs and into the kitchen where the sound of a rushing shower told him that the bathroom was already occupied. He put a kettle on, shifting back and forth like a child as his bare feet grew accustomed to the chilly linoleum. He seated himself at the table and reorganized the scattered newspaper to read.

With a loud creak, the bathroom door opened and John turned to see Sherlock exit, wrapped in a towel. He was pale, lean, his hair still dripping and there was a steamy cloud lingering in the space behind him. Briefly their eyes met. Sherlock half smiled before turning away, towards the privacy of his bedroom. John's heart was thudding in his chest and he looked away. He was staring at the newspaper diligently. So diligently that he had re-read the same paragraph several times, not taken in any of it and not realized it. Until…

"You've been on the same page for several minutes." Sherlock's voice made John startle. It was a careful, deliberate drawl and it came from directly behind him.

John gave a short laugh and set the paper down. "Right. I suspect I'll need a shower and another cup before I'm awake enough to actually read."

"You _are_ up earlier than normal." Sherlock provided, turning away and pouring tea for himself.

"Have you left any hot water?" John asked and he rose from his seat.

"Possibly, but probably not." was the steady reply. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, eyes twinkling as he stirred his sugar cubes. John shifted his weight awkwardly.

"Right."

Sherlock found it a bit odd and somewhat intriguing that John was feeling so self-conscious that morning. He could tell because John, though he was about to shower, had synched his bathrobe a bit tighter over his shoulders as he turned away. He'd also jumped guiltily when Sherlock had observed that he wasn't actually _reading_ the paper. Even the way he met Sherlock's eye that morning as he'd stepped out of the shower had looked somewhat guilty.

Puzzling, Sherlock glanced over his equipment and experiments, making sure that none of them were broken or disturbed. _No, that isn't it._ He checked the front room to make sure that none of his case files had been mixed up. It had happened once, when John bumped the table. Photographs from two different cases had gotten sloshed together. John had picked up the files and pictures off the ground and put them back in what he thought was the correct order.

The end result was that it had taken Sherlock an extra fourteen, frustrating hours to solve the cases. When Sherlock had voiced his excited but rather annoyed discovery that the photographs were jumbled up John had acted very guilty. However, his files were currently undisturbed. Nothing was broken, as far as he could see…

With a loud creak, the bathroom door opened and John came out, wrapped in his bathrobe. He looked up to see Sherlock staring intently at him, eyes moving from his face to his hands, then to his chest, head, feet, _everywhere_. John blushed deeply as Sherlock's invasive eyes made him feel x-rayed. However, John knew that look, it was the look Sherlock got when he was searching for an answer. He wondered what the question was.

"What?" He asked, looking around with a bemused expression. Sherlock's frown deepened and he shook his head.

"The service begins in one hour." Sherlock reminded him. "I'd dress in dark colors if I were you. The congregation will most likely be in mourning for the loss of their member."

John rolled his eyes. "Right, because I was planning on wearing my bright orange Hawaiian and a great bloody cross."

Sherlock sniggered and turned back to the paper, leaving John to get dressed.

The wind was strong, the leaves dry and as they skirted across the ground like little dancing tornadoes John took a deep breath and enjoyed the new smell of Fall. The morning was cloudy but rays of sun dappled through the stratus coat, washing London's towers and streets with a vibrant, blue grey hue. He watched as Sherlock stepped into a patch of sunlight, throwing an arm out to hail a cab.

"I've managed to obtain a copy of the building's blueprints." Sherlock said when they when the cab pulled out into the streets. "There's an office in the back and I need to access it."

"Okay, what for? I thought the point was to observe potential suspects." John asked, feeling somewhat left out.

"It is. However, I have a theory that I need to test."

John frowned. "Sherlock, what are you not telling me about this case?"

Sherlock smiled and glanced at John from his peripherals. "There's another case that I've been somewhat stuck on.. Across the UK there have been shipments of pharmaceutical drugs going missing. Pharmacies across the country have been running dry and patients have been getting cut off from their supplies."

"I remember reading about that. You didn't tell me you've been working on it."

Sherlock nodded. "I haven't been able to do much, until now. Loads of medications that are widely abused on the streets and sold at a much higher profit than your average, home cooked uppers and downers have been going missing and this is what's interesting; the drivers load the shipments but when they get to their destinations, the shipments are gone. Not a single DI across the UK can figure out how it's being done. Of course the drivers have been the prime suspects, but there is no evidence to convict any of them."

"What's this got to do with what we're doing now?"

"The minister of the Church, Bianca Westrom, happens to be the brother of the man I suspect to be behind it all. Saul Westrom."

"How do you think they've been doing it?"

Sherlock smiled, enjoying the curiosity in John's voice.

"The _testimony_ of every driver being accused is that in between receiving the delivery and dropping it off is that they had to enter a mandatory weigh station. Four of the drivers have testified that the procedures were unnaturally long and they were held up for almost thirty minutes. Two more of the drivers were paid off to say that there was nothing unusual about the stop. However, the stations were all portable and the Secretary of State for Transport, Patrick McLoughlin, has provided evidence supporting his testimony that he none of the portable stations were issued by the Ministry of Transport. The recorded portable weigh stations did not match the weigh stations that the drivers all stopped at."

"Did Mycroft put you up to this?" John asked.

"He's not particularly concerned about it, however, some members of Parliament _are_ and they've bothered him enough that he's been trying to hand it down to me."

"That's why you haven't spoken about it."

"I told him I'd look into it when I had the time."

"That's why you're not getting Lestrade involved yet."

"I _told_ you it was a delicate case John."

"When do you plan on involving him?"

"Once I've got enough evidence for him to arrest someone of significance."

John grinned. "Okay, so who is Saul Westrom?"

"Do you remember the Wales Railway drug bust that happened three years ago?"

John shook his head.

"Of course you don't, you were in Afghanistan. It was all over the papers. An entire criminal organization was taken down, all except for Saul Westrom. He snaked his way out of the whole thing. He owns Cambri, the food corporation. One of the lower branches of that corporation is Hemming's Produce, the company that delivers massive donations to the church."

"That's _brilliant, _Sherlock. So Saul Westrom is back in business then and using the church his sister runs as a distribution point."

"I wouldn't have made the connection if it hadn't been for the empty Hemming's crates on the side of the McKinney's house and the church pamphlet with the name "Bianca Westrom" on the inside. Jason McKinney helped with the distribution of the food to homeless and low income families. I don't believe he had anything to do with the pharmaceuticals."

"Sorry, you don't think he had anything to do with the drugs and you don't think he was killed for his inheritance either?" John asked, disbelieving.

Sherlock's fists clenched. "Those _are_ the two most obvious motives but neither of them make sense. I'm missing something. Either way, that isn't my main concern at this point."

"I was wondering about that." John murmured.

"Wondering about what?" Sherlock asked.

"Normally you wouldn't be so involved in a case like this. I could see how it interested you at first, what with the way Jason McKinney died but I couldn't figure out what about it was _keeping _you interested. Seemed a bit run of the mill for you and I kept wondering why you weren't just handing the case over to Lestrade. So what exactly are we doing today?" John asked, happy to finally understand where Sherlock's passion was really coming from.

Sherlock pulled a thimble size, black cylinder from his pocked and held it up for John to see. "I'm hoping to get away during the service long enough to key log Miss Bianca's office computer. She will be occupied ministering the service and I don't believe it will be particularly difficult to slip away for a time."

John nodded. Within minutes they were pulling up to the curb on Delmar Road alongside a single story brick building with a vast, wide parking lot. The building was wide and Sherlock could see people hovering around the entrance. John spotted Earl McKinney standing beside the door, handing out pamphlets. John pointed him out to Sherlock.

"Right, best go say hello then." He muttered. Earl noticed them coming up the steps. When they met him a few days prior, he'd looked healthy enough. Now grief gave him a deathly appearance. Though he was dressed well, in a dark grey suit with polished shoes, his face was haggard and strained. He looked like he'd hardly slept, his eyes were bloodshot and sporting dark bags beneath.

"Mr. McKinney, we're so sorry for your loss." John said solemnly as they neared him. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"It's you two. You came to my home." Earl said quietly, passing them both a pamphlet. Jason McKinney's photograph was on the front side of it.

"This isn't the funeral service is it? I hope we're not intruding." John said.

"No, not exactly. We held a private service yesterday. He was well loved here though, and our minister made these in honor of him and his generous donation to the church."

"Donation?" Sherlock asked. John knew it was to confirm where the inheritance had gone upon his death.

"Oh, yes, he's left a decent sum of money, to go to the families in need here and to some restoration of the building." Earl answered quietly, his mind clearly elsewhere.

John scuffed his foot against the ground. "That was good of him. Well, we'll be going in then."

They entered into a large, dimly lit service room with long rows of benches leading up to the raised speaking platform. There was musical equipment beside the speaking podium and a microphone. At the front of the chapel there was a speaking podium. Sherlock assessed the room's exits.

There were two on each side of the platform, two at the entrance, two on either side of the main room. In the middle of the two right hand doors there was a large, one way window that Sherlock knew to be a room for nursing mothers where they could feed their newborns and still participate in the service. The left-hand doors were labeled _Kindergarten _and_ Children's Sunday School_. The doors on the right-hand side were labeled _Kitchen _and_ Hall_. Sherlock knew from the blueprints that if he went down the hall there would be bathrooms, the entrance to the nursery, a door to the kitchen and one to the office.

John nodded to the empty seats in the very back, closest to the hall door and Sherlock followed him. Time passed and as the building became full, the seats on either side of them were taken up. John thumbed through the pamphlet with Sherlock leaning onto his shoulder to see. There would be morning worship songs, words from the minister, greetings, then the sermon, ending with another song. In a few moments, the lights dimmed even more and the worship group began to play a soft melody.

Everyone stood to sing along and a projector in the back turned on to display the lyrics on the wall above the podium. A woman stood at the front of the platform who John assumed to be Bianca Westrom. She was tall, with close cropped brown hair and a modest, long sleeved blue dress. She was quite attractive actually, in John's opinion. She looked to be in her thirties with a slender, heart shaped face and a petite nose.

John and Sherlock stood, feeling out of place as the congregation sang, swayed and put their hands up in worship. Some closed their eyes and the feeling building in the room grew emotional as the second, slow hymn began. Sherlock muttered in John's ear.

"People believe that the energy they are feeling is the spirit of God, when really if you attend any sort of concert, whether it be religious or otherwise, the same feeling will be present. God is just the placebo that causes raised serotonin levels, endorphins and the feeling of togetherness that they are experiencing."

"_Hush_, we're either supposed to be quiet or sing along, tell me about it later." John scolded.

Sherlock scoffed at him and looked up in time to see Bianca Westrom lean towards the microphone during an instrumental segment in the song.

Her voice was a clear, melodic alto. "Today we are celebrating the passing of Jason McKinney, an incredible man who dwells now in House of the Lord. Though he will be sorely missed by all, he is at peace now with our Lord and Savior. Let us join hands and think of him during this song. Think of all that he's done for us as a fellowship and give our thanks to God for bringing into our lives."

There was a young woman on John's left who reached out and took his hand. They made eye contact briefly and the woman gave him a warm, friendly smile. John returned it before glancing up at Sherlock. He tried not to laugh at the strained, blank expression on his friend's face as his hand was grasped by an older man on his right. John knew how Sherlock didn't appreciate physical contact but in this case, would tolerate it as long as he had to.

Sherlock looked down at John, making eye contact briefly. His expression was now unreadable. Something brushed against John's right hand. He looked down, startled and realized it was Sherlock's fingers. They were cold, and John's heart stuttered as they hesitantly pressed against his palm.

_Oh. Right._ John thought, requiting the grasp. He thanked his stars that the room was dark as he felt his ears grow hot. The contact between them felt so light and fragile. Sherlock glanced down, viewing John out of the corner of his vision. He was staring straight ahead with the same blank expression he'd worn in Earl McKinney's home. After a moment, he appeared to relax slightly.

His hand was calloused but warm and Sherlock nearly startled when John's fingers wove between his, solidifying the bond between them. A moment earlier, Sherlock had been trying to work out a good way to get to the back office. Now though, he was assessing the moment intensely. He'd even forgotten his annoyance with the man on his right, who had clasped his hand only seconds before. All he could feel was the warmth of John's hand in his left. He gave a gentle squeeze, trying to feel his friend's pulse and failed. There was a pulse, it was fluttering like the wings of a small bird, but Sherlock couldn't tell whom it belonged to. The woman on John's left moved, forcing him to shift slightly to the right until his shoulder brushed against Sherlock's.

John felt that it would be a mistake but couldn't help it; he looked up anyways. Before he could advert his gaze, Sherlock eyes darted down to meet his. They were startled and searching. He knew that Sherlock had been feeling for his pulse, it was in his nature. He'd done it before, to The Woman, Irene Adler, early that year. It was the reason he'd guessed the password to her phone. John opened his mouth, but any excuse died in his throat as Sherlock's fingers caressed his softly, just once.

He looked away, struggling to control his breathing. Heat was building in his body that he wasn't prepared to deal with. He didn't have time to think about it, only time to react as the song came to an abrupt end. The lights grew brighter and the woman on his left released him from her grasp. In the same moment, John and Sherlock struggled to unwind their fingers. John couldn't bring himself to look at Sherlock as they stepped awkwardly away from one another. Bianca was speaking again and John caught what she was saying mid-sentence.

"_Good to see some new faces in the crowd. Let's have a chance to get to know each other and take a few moments for greetings before we start."

"Hello," The woman on John's left said. He turned to look at her. "I'm Riley, I haven't seen you before." She was young, in her early twenties with corkscrew curly blond hair and a bubbly disposition.

"John Watson, nice to meet you." John smiled, then glanced over his shoulder quickly and found that Sherlock had disappeared.

"Is he your husband?" Riley asked cheerfully.

"Sorry, what?" John turned back to her. "Oh, no, no. We're just_ he's my_" John struggled for the right words, flustered.

"He's your boyfriend then?" She asked.

John nodded. "Yeah, that. Did you see where he went?"

Riley shook her head. "Sorry, no. Suppose he's gone to the bathroom?"

"That must be it." John forced a smile and headed towards the door that he suspected Sherlock had gone through. Before he was half way there, a young man approached him, reaching a hand out.

"I'm Lodi," He said shaking John's hand. He was tall and muscled, with brown skin and a shaved head, in his late thirties. He had what John recognized as a permanent tension crease in his forehead.

"You were playing the drums." John replied, stepping as if to go around him. "John Watson, good to meet you."

"Haven't seen you before, do you know Jason?" Lodi asked. The question made John stop.

"You could say that." John said. "Why do you ask?"

Lodi shrugged. "I just can't believe he's gone. He seemed so healthy. It's said he died of a stroke."

John nodded carefully. "Yes, he did." He decided to take a chance and added. "Though, he was having problems with his liver as well."

The man frowned. "Is that so? How did you know him, if you don't mind me asking?" Lodi asked.

"Hmm? Oh, he_ helped me and my_ my partner with some fresh produce once." John lied.

"Oh yea, okay. You're boyfriend's the tall one who went off to ahh, use the restroom a moment ago?"

"Oh you saw him."

"I recognized him." Lodi replied evenly.

John tried not to grimace. He opened his mouth to speak but Lodi cut him off. He leaned in and spoke quickly.

"I'm not outing you. I think there's something off about this whole thing, about Jason's death. I've known him and Earl for years. Jason was fit. I just have a hard time believing he'd keel over from a stroke like that."

John's mouth tightened into a firm line. He didn't trust this man at all, which meant that he could be exactly the person they were looking for. John gave a short nod and followed his instincts. He spoke quietly. "Yes. Actually, that's _exactly_ why we're here. It wasn't a stroke that was killing him. I can't disclose anything else, but whatever you know, if you could tell me it could be very helpful. This is a very secret investigation, so if you wouldn't mind keeping it to yourself."

Lodi nodded, his expression serious. "Of course, Dr. Watson. I don't know anything really. Just that he was leaving a lot of money to the church and so far, there's not been any talk about distributing it. Supposedly a good portion is supposed to go to the building's restoration, but no plans have been made."

John leaned in. "Really?" He asked, doing his best to make the curiosity in his voice sound sincere. "Can you tell me who's in charge of all that? It's quite a lot of cash after all. It could be _very_important for the police to know."

Lodi's eyes brightened. He nodded towards the podium where Bianca stood. "Her, there. She's in charge. Her name is Bianca Westrom."

"_The minister? Really?"_

Lodi nodded. "It was supposed to go over to the church's account, but so far, it's all in hers. I'm the accountant here, I would know. As of yet, she hasn't transferred it. It just makes me curious."

"Thank you for your help, if you have anything el_" John's voice failed him, mid-sentence as an arm snaked around his waist and a hand rested on his ribcage. He looked up to see Sherlock, who smiled quickly before directing his attention towards Lodi. He reached a hand out.

"You are?"

"Ludovico Benici, Lodi in short." He replied. "I was just speaking to Doctor Watson abo_"

"I know what you were discussing." Sherlock interrupted. "Please understand that the topic is _very_ secret. While your cooperation is appreciated I think we've got everything that we need." He glanced quickly at Bianca, who was speaking to the young blond woman Riley.

John almost smirked at the excited look in the other man's eye.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes, of course." Lodi said with earnest. "Thank you, it means so much knowing that everything is in good hands."

Sherlock's smile was quick, forced and detached.

"Good day." He said, dropping his arm to grasp John's fingers and lead him in tow.

When they were out on the street Sherlock dropped his hand like a hot stone and hailed a taxi. They climbed in.

"221B, Baker Street." Sherlock commanded.

"I thought we were going to speak to Bianca?" John said as he buckled in.

Sherlock looked at him, clearly very excited. "No need. You were speaking to the killer and you told him _exactly_ what he needed to hear. Brilliant, John!"

John flushed with pride. "Ah, well. Good. I had a feeling about him. Glad I was on target."

"How did you know it was him? Come on, John, don't tell me it was just your intuition. It was _more_ than just a feeling. What did you _observe_?" Sherlock pressed.

John thought about it. "Well, you said that Bianca is being framed and he seemed to really want us to be suspicious of her. Also, now that I think about it, I didn't approach the topic. He approached it with me. He recognized you, and suspected that you were here about the murder. So he came right to me when you left. It's funny though." He laughed.

"What's funny?" Sherlock asked.

"Him thinking that he could fool you."

"He wouldn't be the first and he won't be the last."

"Right, so do you have any notion as to why he's setting her up?"

Sherlock nodded. "From what I've gathered, Jason and Bianca were somewhat of a team. Aside from allowing her chapel to be a cartel's distribution point, she is very adamant about helping families in need and all of the_ _God stuff_. I suspect that if Saul Westrom were not her brother, she wouldn't be so keen on it. Lodi is the Bianca's accountant and completely uninterested in anything other than moving up in the cartel's circle. Being Bianca's right hand man, he would be in line to take over her rather resented position in her brother's cartel. He's setting her up to take a fall for murder and go to prison so that he can take over her position."

"You don't her brother will get involved at that point?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Saul Westrom will protect himself over anyone else. As Bianca takes a fall for murder he will cut contact with her. It will most likely be weeks before he gets in contact with Lodi and reopens the church distribution point. In reality, Lodi's selfish actions may have cost him his job and his freedom, if this can be played right."

"Jesus. Did you manage to get onto the computer?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "The computer was finger print encrypted. Thankfully, the desk had a glass surface and I was able to lift a left hand index print that was clear enough to unlock the desktop."

"I thought you could only do that kind of thing in movies." John said.

"Nope. You can learn on Youtube."

"So, you've hacked her computer, now what?"

"My laptop is downloading everything she does onto a file that I'll send to Mycroft if anything interesting appears. I doubt she does any substantial business on it though."

"Got a plan then?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "The shipments of food arrive every Sunday night, to be distributed to the population every Monday. I suggest we stake out the building and wait for a shipment to arrive. Among that shipment should be boxed and labeled pharmaceutical drugs as well as fresh produce."

John nodded. "So you're thinking we'll just hang out and watch for a bit, take a photograph or two, maybe a video?"

Sherlock ignored the sarcasm in John's voice. "Precisely."

They returned to the flat to rest up and finalize their course of action. John fed and armed himself while Sherlock sat, lost in thought.

"You've got to eat something." John said, bringing him a plate of left over rice and chicken. Sherlock made a face.

"On the off chance that we can get anything useful from this little excursion tonight, it would be the time to inform Lestrade and have Bianca arrested." Sherlock said, picking at the food with his fork.

"Have Bianca arrested and not Lodi?" John asked.

"All the signs point to Bianca as the killer. For the time being, she needs to take the fall as such. We need Lodi to return to working for the cartel and to reopen the distribution point. I want him to think that nothing is wrong. It will give us time to watch, question Bianca about anything she knows and when her brother does not come to her aid, offer her a deal for information that she will at first be reluctant to give."

"We know for certain that the drugs are being distributed along with the food?" John asked.

"We're going to find out."


	5. Chapter 5 - Lock and Load

**Chapter 5**

**Lock and Load**

"Bright it back straight!" a tall, salt and pepper bearded man in a camo beanie called. He watched, painfully embarrassed as his new driver botched backing the truck into the vast space on the side of the building.

"Crank the wheel, or you'll take the whole bloody church down!" He yelled. The truck came to an abrupt stop. "For Christ's sake." The man hissed.

"Get a move on it! I want this done with!" the short haired brunette snapped as the camo man ran to instruct his driver.

Sherlock and John watched from above, lying flat on their stomachs on the roof top.

"That's Bianca." John whispered as the woman turned, jittery with impatience. He was holding a small video camera and capturing the events on the digital HD screen.

Sherlock nodded. "If they manage to back the truck up into the appropriate position we'll have a clear view of everything they're unloading. If not, we'll have to adjust our viewpoint a bit."

"Right, looks like the tall bloke's taken over. He seems to have it under control."

The midnight air was icy and the light from the street lamps were clouded by fog. John and Sherlock watched as the tall man in the camo hat backed the truck in properly. When it was parked, he flipped the lights off and another man, younger and bulkier, hopped out of the passenger side of the cab. This man wore a red beanie, a black scarf and a leather jacket.

"Open it up!" Camo beanie commanded.

The back of the truck rolled open to reveal crates upon crates of food. The two men began unloading it under Bianca's supervision. So far, everything looked normal.

"Sherlock, what if this isn't actually a distribution point? What if she's got nothing to do with what her brother does?" John whispered.

"She does." Sherlock insisted. Slowly, the cargo was unloaded and taken inside the building. Through the twilight John saw headlights coming up the road and gave Sherlock's shoulder a nudge. A black caravan was pulling into the parking lock. It backed in beside the truck and a hooded man hopped out.

"He's armed." Sherlock whispered. They watched as Bianca went to greet him.

John handed the digital camera to Sherlock to continue recording the scene. He pulled out a notepad and took down the license plate on the caravan as well as the plate on the truck.

"There." Sherlock whispered. The men were unloading a different kind of box. These were cardboard, not crates and they were smaller. Obviously not produce. Several boxes were removed and stacked beside the caravan.

"Lock this one down, load the other up." said the tall man to the thick, leather cladded one. The hooded driver of the caravan unlocked the back and watched as the more than half of the boxes were loaded inside. John craned his neck, trying to get a good view. Three boxes remained and Bianca ordered the tall man to have them taken inside and stacked with the produce. The caravan driver glanced up, causing Sherlock and John to duck back.

There was a moment of silence.

"I think we're fine." Sherlock whispered, lifting his head again. Immediately there was a loud, sharp ping and John pulled Sherlock back down.

"Someone's up there!" a rough voice called.

"They have a silencer." Sherlock said as he and John scrambled to their feet. "That was a bullet ricocheting off the vent _directly_ below us."

"Shut up!" John snapped. They bolted for the opposite end of the building, slipping on the wet roof tiles. Sherlock went down, sliding sideways and John caught him by the sleeve, bracing himself as best he could. A few more feet and they had caught hold of the maintenance ladder they'd used to get up and were quickstepping backwards down it as fast as they could manage. John jumped, half way down and drew his gun. As soon as Sherlock hit the ground beside him they were off, sprinting for their lives.

They rounded the corner toward the front of the building and came face to face with the bulky man in the leather jacket. Sherlock turned at the last second and shoulder checked him. The man grunted loudly as he hit the ground. They darted around him and heard the sharp crack of another bullet hitting the pavement beside them.

John glanced to the left and saw the armed man hopping into the van, gun in hand.

"He's going to run us down!" He called to Sherlock over the loud, frantic slap of their feet on the ground.

John could hear Bianca yelling and Sherlock glanced back. The man he'd knocked down was on his feet again, running after them. Bianca was on her phone, speaking rapidly. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The caravan was peeling out, less than fifty feet from them. If they continued straight, they would be hit. If they swerved right, they would probably be hit. The only thing they could possibly do was dart left, right through the path of the vehicle. Sherlock reached out, grabbing John's hand to guide him.

"Sharp left!" he commanded. John didn't hesitate. He trusted Sherlock with his life, to the point that in a moment of near death he would follow the man's orders without question or thought. The caravan was already turning right. It was careening straight towards them now. It was mere feet away. Seeing what they were doing, the driver tried to follow them left as they dodged around him, missing being hit by inches. Sherlock dropped John's hand. Time sped up again.

There was a loud screech and the smell of burned rubber. The caravan spun, lifting on one side. For a moment John though that it might go over. Instead it fell heavily back onto all four wheels and began to reverse, reorienting itself to follow them again. John and Sherlock continued left onto the street and made for the closest intersection. The spinning vehicle had caused the man on foot to halt, not wanting to chance being hit. Now, he was back on their tail. Sherlock assessed their position, using practiced hand signals to give John some direction.

"Got it." John huffed. When they reached the four way intersection they took another immediate left and darted into a densely cluttered alleyway. Sherlock sprang gracefully over a cluster of garbage bags, darted around bins and thoughtlessly skipped over a few sleeping strangers wrapped in patched wool. He was intensely focused on the path ahead. John was right behind him and when he heard the caravan screech to a stop and footsteps padding after them he turned, firing two rounds. The leather clad man dodged a bullet. With a bang, one of the caravan's tires blew out. The alleyway split and John followed Sherlock right, leaping over a sleeping homeless man in a yellow rain jacket. The man jerked, sitting up and John's foot caught on the edge of his jacket. He dove straight into a left side shoulder roll and was back on his feet, riding the momentum back into a sprint.

Their hearts were pounding, their bodies wired with adrenaline and their minds sharp with the desperate thrill of a foot pursuit escape. There was nothing that could match the feeling of clarity that came from ones carnal survival instinct being paired with a lifetime of training and strong intuition. If you haven't been there, felt the intensity of the hunt, the chase, there is _no way to describe it_. The only word that could be used in every sense that would come close would be absolutely, unquestionably _alive_.

The alley ended and they shot into the street, all electric, vibrant energy. One car honked as they cut it off. Traffic was getting thicker as they headed into the dark, edgy world of London's nightlife in that part of town. John glanced behind him. The foggy lamplight gave way to two quickly growing shadows and two men rounded the bend after them.

"On the main street, dead ahead, take a right and go through the green door." Sherlock ordered. John nodded. The leather clad man had fallen behind and John could now see clearly that their other assailant was not the armed man from the caravan. It was the tall older gentlemen in the camo beanie. He was catching up. They took a sharp right onto a crowded street, shouldering their way past people.

John saw a flash of green to his right and turned on a dime. He slammed through the door with Sherlock treading on his heels. The door swung closed behind them.

They were pressed together in a hot, loud, thriving bar. John and Sherlock doubled over, catching their breath.

"Did you hit a wheel on that caravan?" Sherlock gasped.

John nodded. "I think they've got bigger things to worry about than us. They need to get it out of there, fast."

The straightened up and pushed through the crowd until they reached the back of the room. Sherlock ruffled his hair and tugged off his scarf, hoping to break through the sudden, overwhelming heat. He took a seat in the darkened corner while John went to fetch them both a drink. Pulling out his phone he messaged Mycroft.

_One foot in the Westrom door. –SM_

His phone sounded as John returned, handing him a dark glass topped with foam.

_I thought you'd forgotten. Tomorrow morning. 7 Sharp. –MH_

Sherlock drank deeply, inhaling the rich scent of the thick craft brew.

"You were right. That is definitely a distribution point." John said, taking a long drink.

Sherlock nodded. They drank quickly and silently, cooling down before flagging a taxi back to the flat. John made for the shower when they returned, aching to wash the rooftop grit and sweat from his pores. Sherlock threw off his coat, stoked the fire and sat down to think. John would go to surgery in the morning for a full day of work. Mycroft would arrive early.

He was thinking of the quicksilver dynamics that occurred between them, how he could speak to John so clearly with a single look or movement.

"You look amused. What's on your mind?"

Sherlock looked up to see John standing before him, looking curious.

"Nothing in particular. I just thought this case would be more difficult."

"More difficult? You've been on it for over a week now."

"Not the murder, John. Saul Westrom. I thought he was better, smarter than that."

"You've been trying to get a lead on _him_ for months."

"Now that I've got a lead on him though, it's practically over."

"He got away last time." John reminded him.

"This time the company he owns is going to be caught distributing. This time, things will be different. By the way, while we're on the topic of mysteries, you haven't broken or misplaced anything of importance to me have you?"

John's expression grew confused. "We're never _not_ on the topic of mysteries, Sherlock. I haven't, why?"

Sherlock frowned. "You've been acting, _odd_. I can't place it."

John felt his stomach flip and he took a step backwards. "Haven't the foggiest idea." He said, turning away.

Sherlock watched John leave for his bedroom with burning curiosity. A step backwards was defensive and though he knew John would never betray him in any way there was something different in him that hadn't been before.

Something secret was between them and Sherlock longed to find out what. The curiosity was becoming steadily stronger. It had almost reached the point now where Sherlock cared more to find out what troubled John than to crack the Westrom case.

Time ticked by swiftly and before Sherlock realized it, the sun had come up. His eyes refocused and he realized he was staring down at a shiny pair of black shoes. He looked up. "Hello, brother mine."

Mycroft gave a short smile. "Had I been an enemy arriving with ill intentions towards you, Sherlock, you would have been deaf and blind to them. You really shouldn't close your ears off when you enter you mind, you know. It tends to make you unaware of your surroundings. Vulnerable like a newborn lamb."

"I was aware of your presence; I was choosing to ignore it." Sherlock snapped, flicking his eyebrows. Mycroft annoyed him very much.

"Whatever you say, brother mine."

"Are you familiar with Bianca Westrom?" Sherlock asked.

"We have her under surveillance for some time. Why?"

"She's distributing for her brother. From the church she ministers for. She's also been framed for the murder of an old man for his inheritance. She has a right hand man who is eager to advance and set it up so that she would be removed from the picture."

Mycroft's eyebrows pulled together. He refrained from asking and picked up where Sherlock left off. "So you're suggesting we pull her in and hold her on a murder charge, allowing her second in command to step up?"

"While we have her, I'm sure I can get her to open up about her brother's_ business methods."

"While we run surveillance on the distribution point." Mycroft finished. He sighed. "Saul Westrom has been a thorn in my side. I thought you would never get to it, with all the more _important_ work you have had going on."

"It wasn't on the _very_ bottom of my list."

John padded into the room, dressed for work. "G' morning." He muttered, catching Sherlock's eye as he passed into the kitchen. The icy smile that Sherlock had given to Mycroft turned warm when he'd seen his flat mate's face.

"_Distractions_ tend to be extremely counterproductive to survival, Sherlock." Mycroft muttered, looking sideways.

"I've found that _Friendship_ has no survival value, but rather it gives value to survival itself."

Mycroft scoffed. "A few years ago you would have been the last person, aside from _me_, to have thought so."

Sherlock shrugged, keeping his voice low. "Perhaps it took meeting John Watson to change my mind."

Mycroft made a face.

From the kitchen, John's ears burned. He'd caught the faintest murmur of his name on Sherlock's lips. He couldn't help wondering what was being said. The night before Sherlock had questioned him. Said there was something _off _with him. John had gone to bed, pondering it. Something _was_ off, he'd decided. At least, it was different than it had once been. Sometimes, John felt tension in the air between them. After a chase was usually when John noticed it. When the adrenaline was pumping in their veins, he would look at Sherlock and feel what he could only think of as the deepest happiness he'd ever encountered.

"Off to work, Sherlock, Mycroft." John nodded as he passed them by again with a piece of toast in hand.

"I'll brief you on your lunch break." Sherlock promised, giving him a nod.

"_Have something to eat!"_ John called as he treaded down the stairs.

"Adorable." Mycroft's voice was thick with sarcasm.

"It would be better if you contacted Lestrade and directed him. He can't know that Bianca Westrom is actually innocent of the murder; his morals won't stand for it. For the time being, she is by all counts guilty and you're having me come in to question her about her brother and the cartel." Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded. "Where is your evidence?"

Sherlock had carefully packaged the tea bags, hand written birthday letter and a summary of events for Mycroft to relay.

As he reviewed everything that Sherlock had gathered the buzzer rang short from down stairs, just once.

"Client." Sherlock muttered. A moment later, Mrs. Hudson entered the room with a short, rapid knock.

"Sherlock, there's a man here for you. An older gentlemen." She said.

"Send him up. I _told_ you I've been busy Mycroft." Sherlock said, looking smug.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. There were footsteps on the stairs, soft and slow. A tiresome, impatient minute ticked by before the old man entered. Sherlock glanced up and startled, sloshing his tea onto the carpet. Standing before him, wrapped in a thick winter coat, a woolen hat and a knitted scarf was Earl McKinney. Upon seeing Sherlock, the old man's eyebrows scrunched together. Sherlock made a face.

"You_ You're the fellow_ At my house_" he sputtered.

"Yes, Mr. McKinney, I am the fellow." Sherlock said quickly, ignoring Mycroft's look of confusion. "I'm sorry for not informing you immediately of my true intentions when I questioned you before. It was crucial at the time that you were unaware of my purpose."

"A cousin of mine gave me this address and said I'd have to come here if I wanted help." He said quietly.

"Mr. McKinney, I am happy to make you aware, now that you are no longer a suspect, that your husband's murder is being thoroughly investigated." Sherlock said, smiling patiently.

"I was a _suspect_?" the old man sputtered.

"Of course you were. However, you no longer are, as I said. Please trust me when I tell you that you will be the first to know when Jason's true killer is brought to justice."

"That's really why you came to the service yesterday? To investigate?" Earl asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Please Mr. McKinney, I am extremely busy with your case at the moment actually and it would be better if you allowed me to contact you later when I have more news I can share with you."

"I thought that you'd want to be paid_" Earl said, clearly confused.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't need that, thank you. I will contact you soon." He ushered the old man out the door and snapped it shut.

Mycroft stood to take his leave. "Please, arrive at the Yard no later than ten."

Sherlock nodded, picking up his violin. He worried at it as Mycroft made his way out the front door of 221B Baker Street and out into London's chilled concrete jungle. It wasn't long before John's voice was ringing in his head. _Have something to eat!_

Sherlock put down the violin and went to the kitchen. Sometimes he wondered if John had the faintest idea of how his presence had altered Sherlock's life. Often, he wondered how John could care about him so completely, so unconditionally. On occasion, Sherlock could even see it behind his eyes.

He didn't treat him as if he were a dangerous tool to be wielded with caution, like everyone else did. It was beyond Sherlock and sometimes, when it crossed his mind, he did the things that he knew would make John happy. He crinkled his nose and took a tentative bite of a soft boiled egg, ignoring his lack of an appetite.

Halfway across town, John sat behind his desk fighting the urge to yawn and hoping that Sherlock would eat. _Fat chance._ He thought. Sometimes he doubted that Sherlock would ever eat during a case if it weren't for John standing over his shoulder, making him. His phone buzzed. He glanced down.

_I ate. Half an egg. Happy? –SH_

John squinted at the phone, almost disbelieving. He glanced around the room, then out the window. No sign of Sherlock.

_Are you here? –JW_

_No. In a cab. On my way to speak to Lestrade. Why? –SH_

_Did you deduce that I was wondering if you'd actually eaten or not? –JW_

_No. I just thought you should know. –SH_

_So that it wouldn't bother me? –JW_

_Perhaps. If that's how you'd like to think of it. –SH_

_I know you weren't actually hungry. –JW_

_I knew it would make you happy if I ate. –SH_

John stared at the message, dumbfounded. He began to type a sentence and then erased it promptly. He started a new one, trying to describe how he felt knowing that Sherlock cared enough about John to do something that he found to be trivial and unnecessary. He erased it again.

_I wasn't expecting that. –JW_

_I certainly wouldn't expect you to tell me. -JW_

Sherlock was seated outside of the interrogation room, staring through the window at Bianca Westrom as Detective Inspector Lestrade interviewed her. He glanced down, re reading the messages between himself and John. He stared at the text, trying to decide on what to say.

"Never seen you smile like _that_ before. What is it, a triple homicide? A beheading?" Sargent Sally Donovan's voice cut through Sherlock's thoughts, coming from directly beside him. He pocketed his phone but not before Sally had gotten a glimpse at the texts.

"Of course, texting your boyfriend." Acid dripped from her voice. "It's a wonder he's not dead, with all that you put him through. You know, I think if you really cared about him, you wouldn't be with him."

Sherlock's eyes flashed but he did not respond.

"It's only a matter of time before he ends up dead." She walked out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind her. On the opposite side of the two way mirror Bianca Westrom sat silently, her face was hard. She would neither look at nor respond to Detective Inspector Lestrade. He stood, spoke a final word to her and exited the room.

"My turn." Sherlock said, standing.

Greg nodded. "I haven't gotten anything out of her other than that she swears she's innocent. Do you think she could be?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If she is, I will find out."

Greg nodded and stepped aside, allowing Sherlock to enter.

"Miss Westrom." He said, standing opposite of her.

She refused to look at him.

Sherlock seated himself at the other end of the table and leaned forward.

"What has happened today is not being covered by the press. I made sure of that." He said. Her eyes flickered to him.

"Why would you do that?" She asked.

"Because it would ruin your reputation." Sherlock said quietly.

"Why would you care if it did?" she asked again, leaning forward. Her eyes were sharp and crystal clear.

"You're very accustomed to threatening situations. Your eyes dilate and your heart rate rises and yet there's not a single tremor in your fingertips." Sherlock assessed. "I know you're worried about your reputation because I know that you love and believe in what you do. However, it is constantly in jeopardy from what your brother puts you through. He's not coming for you, in case you were wondering. He won't be making a single delivery for at least three weeks at least and when he does, you will be behind bars and your man Ludovico Benici will be receiving the shipments."

Bianca sat back in her seat, crossing her arms. "Lodi?" She asked, frowning.

"Lodi, who delivered your birthday card to Jason McKinney and attached with it the heartwarming gift of death by heroin and Tylenol poison so that when he was autopsied the death would be investigated and all signs would point straight at you. With you hanging by the neck, he would be there to step up and take your place."

The woman's face hardened. She took a deep breath and Sherlock saw that now her fingers began to tremble with rage.

"He's a terrible public speaker. He'd never take care of my fellowship like I do."

Sherlock frowned. "To take your place in your brother's cartel, Miss Westrom. Not as minister of your church."

Bianca's jaw fell slack. "Ah, that bastard. I couldn't give a damn less if he did take over. Jesus."

"He could have just asked and you would have stepped aside?" Sherlock asked.

Bianca nodded. "That's what I hate about all this. Criminals, instead of just asking for what they want think that they need to find a way to take it. I've been set up for no reason."

"So far," he started. "I'm the only person who knows this and I am the only person who can prove it. I want to prove it, Miss. Westrom."

"Why?" she snapped. "Who are you?"

"I am interested."

"Interested in what?"

Sherlock leaned forward even further, laying his hands flat on the table. "Protecting the innocent and bringing the guilty to justice."

"You want my brother."

"I assume that the Detective Inspector has made you aware of the penalties for the crime you are being charged with?" Sherlock asked. Bianca nodded and he continued. "If you are found guilty there will be nothing that can be done to stop the press from covering the story. Your reputation will be destroyed. You will be imprisoned for years or hanged. By the time you get out, what's left of your youth will be gone. Your brother will walk free, the real killer will walk free and nobody will lift a finger for you. Do you believe that?"

Bianca swallowed hard. "I know my brother. Better than he knows himself."

"Do you think he will involve himself?"

There was a sordid moment of aching silence.

"Nope."

Sherlock nodded. "I need one thing from you."

"In exchange for?"

"Your freedom. You know you are innocent and I am the only person who is capable of proving that. I will do that. In exchange you give me the name of your brother's standing officers."

Bianca shook her head immediately. "I don't know."

"When a shipment is received the rout is similar or the same for all of the trucks. That information could be discovered easily and is currently being used. I need a name."

Bianca sat back in the icy silver chair, hands clenched together, rocking back and forth.

"I don't _know_. When my brother has a shipment sent to me a man comes to pick it up. I think he is with the metropolitan police force but I can't be sure. It's all I've got."

Sherlock nodded. "Can you explain to me _why_ you feel that way?"

Bianca thought about it. "I can never place it. It just feels like it. I just know it intuitively. It's just the impression I got from him."

"Miss Westrom, do you know what intuition actually is?"

"I have my beliefs."

"Let me break it down for you. The definition is the ability to know something without needing conscious reasoning. This is how it works. When one person comes in contact with another person for the first time, they form a nearly instantaneous impression of them and they call it the sense of intuition. It is a sense as real as taste, touch and smell. It is also both physical and nonphysical at the same time. Do you follow me?"

Bianca nodded and Sherlock continued. "Every single time you meet someone new, memories are triggered. Your brain is a computer and in a single instant it assesses everything about that person that you can unconsciously observe and relates it to _every_ past experience with every single person that you have ever encountered in your life. Your mind takes tiny pieces of memories from these past experiences and literally _splices_ them together. When this calculation is complete it projects an apparently instantaneous _feeling_ which you called an _impression, _based on these narrow windows of experiences. That is your instinct. It's called thin-slicing. Now, think about it very hard and try to tell me exactly why you _feel_ like this man is with the police."

Bianca sat back and looked away. "I suppose it's the way he talks that makes me think that. He sounds like a police officer but my brother told me he's not. I thought he was a spy, at first. He's been with us for so long now. I've always trusted my brother."

"He was the man driving the van on Monday night?" Sherlock asked.

Bianca's eye flashed. "That was you then?"

Sherlock nodded. "If we are able to stop the robbery and distribution of these narcotics then I will be able to give you your freedom. Either way, you will get off the murder charge. If we are able to half the distribution I can get you off with community service rather than actual time. I need his name."

Bianca shook her head. "I can't act in vengeance against my brother or Lodi. It wouldn't be right. I am a woman of God."

Sherlock opened his mouth. They proceeded to argue. She would not give in and nothing Sherlock said was convincing her. Finally she stuck her tongue out at him. Sherlock made a face at her. She gave him the finger.

Sherlock stared at her. She stared back, unflinching. He pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. He took out his phone and texted John.

_Miss Westrom won't give me a name because she is afraid to sin by giving me the information out of vengeance against her brother.. Help? –S_

_Try a different approach. –JW_

_Any suggestions? –S_

_Just don't try and discredit her religion by giving her a thousand scientific explanations for why there is no hell. –JW_

_Too late. Come down here? –S_

_I have a feeling that she will respond better to you. –S_

A slow minute ticked by.

_I need you. -S_

_On my way. –J_

Sherlock smiled. Ten minutes later John walked in. His eyes were a little tired, his hair was ruffled from the wind and he had two coffees in hand. One of them he handed to Sherlock, the other he set on the table for Bianca.

"No, thank you though." She said. John shrugged, "Suit yourself." And picked it up to take a sip.

"That's your fourth cup today." Sherlock said, eyeing him.

John rolled his eyes. "I don't want to know how you knew that."

Sherlock shrugged.

"My name is John Watson." John said, reaching a hand out to Bianca who nodded, lips pursed. John dropped his hand.

"Right. So, you don't want to give us a name because you think it would be a sin if it's done in vengeance?"

Bianca nodded.

"Even though you're innocent."

"Yep."

"God forgives."

"I still don't feel right doing it."

John's mouth twitched to the side. He glanced at Sherlock who raised his eyebrows.

"You feel better about leaving your congregation in Lodi's hands?" John asked.

Bianca frowned. So did Sherlock.

John continued. "You're the shepherd of that flock. Lodi's not. What's going to happen if you abandon them? You think he's going to take care of those people? They look to you for leadership."

The woman breathed deeply and ran a hand through her close cropped hair.

"Those families are supposed to receive a portion of Jason's inheritance to help them, do you think Lodi will follow through? Or will those families suffer because you allow them to be passed into the care of a bad man? You took them under your wing. Those are your people. They love you, they need you and you're going to leave them."

Bianca slammed her fist down on the table.

"You know I'm innocent. You don't need me to give up my brother to prove me innocent." She hissed.

"_I am not like you."_ Sherlock snapped, leaning towards her. "I am the only person who knows, the only person who can prove it and I am not afraid of sin. I don't _need_ that name to prove you innocent, no. You do, or I won't clear your name."

"_Damn you._"

"Don't abandon your people. They need you. Just give him what he wants. One name." John said.

"Can't you stop him?" Bianca said, turning to John with eyes that were starting to fill with tears.

John shook his head. "I'm sorry. It won't be an act of vengeance. It will be an act of protection. Protect your people, protect God's children. That is your roll. Not to have your neck in a noose."

She sat back in her chair, staring at the wall. He face was forlorn. A long stretch of silence flowed between them.

"Gregory D. Norman." She said quietly. "He's one of the drivers. I still don't know that he is with the metropolitan police. It's just a hunch. I think he patrols the highways, stops the shipment trucks for a weigh test and somehow manages to get the cargo swapped from one truck into another. Then he gets off duty and shows up with the van to pick up the shipment. That's the only way I can see it being possible."

Sherlock nodded. "For your sake, I hope you're right. You'll be here for a few more weeks. Your trial is being pushed out."

"When will I get to speak to my attorney? He was supposed to come. He never showed up. What have you done with him?" She asked.

"Your brother didn't trust him. He was found in a ditch about an hour ago. He had him killed almost immediately after your arrest. I have no proof of this, yet but that's the most likely explanation." Sherlock said.

Bianca swore violently.

"In the meantime, we will make you as comfortable as possible. Thank you for your cooperation."

Bianca did not respond. Sherlock stood and John followed him out the door, a half step behind. Outside, Sherlock turned to face John.

"Thank you." He said. "That was tedious. I was about to start threatening her with other, more illegal things when you showed up."

John chuckled. "Lestrade told me on the way in that you both regressed to primary school communication techniques in the end."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "She started it. Stuck her tongue out at me."

"And _you_ made a face at her. You realize half of Scotland yard was on the other side of that window laughing at the two of you. They didn't need to be able to hear you both to know that it was an argument and that you were losing. Donovan in particular got a kick out of it."

Sherlock muttered a crass insult under his breath, making John snigger.

"What now?" John asked.

"Let Lodi rise to take Bianca's place, keeping the church under surveillance. I've already extended my most genuine gratitude to him for pointing us in the direction of Jason's murderer. He ate right it up. We're going to keep Gregory D. Norman under surveillance and work up the evidence to take as many of them down as possible in one swing. For this to work we need to devastate Westrom's network, not just him."

They were standing in one of the dimly lit corridors in the back end of the Yard. John yawned loudly.

"Where do we go from here?" John asked.

"Mycroft is taking care of the surveillance part. There may be some legwork to be taken care of in a few weeks but until then, yes. We wait."

Sherlock took a deep breath, grinning.

"If this is done right, we could successfully end the reign of one of the world's richest, most _obnoxious_ drug lords. This will also put over a thousand criminals out of a job."

John frowned. "In the meantime, a killer walks free and an innocent woman sits behind bars."

"She wouldn't be there if she hadn't been allowing the distribution of drugs through her church."

"You think she had much of a choice? What do we do about Earl McKinney?" John asked.

"Taken care of already. He's on holiday in America for the next month and a half. Visiting his children. This should all be over by the time he gets back. If not, Mycroft is going to erm_ extend his visit by a few weeks."

John smiled catching Sherlock's eyes. In this lighting they were a shining, clear green; so sharp and cunning when Sherlock had his mind on a case. Now Sherlock met John's eyes and John's heart stuttered to see the edge leave his expression. His gaze softened.

As Sherlock stared at John he saw his smile drop and watched as expression turned searching. Sherlock tilted his head, confused. John broke eye contact and turned to the door. "Lunch?"

"Starving." Sherlock replied, following him.


	6. Chapter 6 - Jump!

**Chapter 6**

**JUMP**

Sherlock and John where exhausted. Over the last few weeks they had been through countless excursions in attempts to gain an advantage in catching what John was now calling (the in the rough drafts of his blog), the Stop and Swap Mystery. Shipment trucks loaded with pharmaceutical drugs were being stopped for a mandatory weight checks and having their cargo covertly switched with boxes full of flour.

"Sherlock can you hear me?" John's voice was muffled. Sherlock smirked.

"I hear you."

"This is by far the worst lorry you've been given. I can't _believe_ I'm back here. Pull your seat _forward_! It's gone over the latch again!"

"Sorry? Didn't catch that." He reached for the nob and shifted into fourth gear. Behind Sherlock hid John, buried in the cab's resting bunk. He swore loudly and Sherlock pulled his seat forward two inches.

"Can't you two just _behave_?" Mycroft's voice was loud and clear over their ear pieces.

John muttered something unintelligible and Sherlock laughed, guessing what he had said.

The two of them were rounding the bend at the bottom of a curvy mountain range bordering the ocean. After weeks of trying and failing, Sherlock was in place behind the wheel of a lorry again, piloting the step one of what would hopefully be the downfall of one of the largest drug lords in the world.

It was a single seat cab and John was hidden as Sherlock's back up in case anything went wrong. Mycroft was dependent on their success to proceed to step two of the operation. He had both of them wired to ensure that he could have consistent contact with them. The inside and outside of the shipment truck was bugged with tiny cameras that would record the interaction when they were stopped.

So far, every attempt had failed. Despite being given assurance that they had the correct location of the Stop and Swap Cop and his team, every time they arrived at the supposed checkpoint it would be empty. Now, Sherlock was behind the wheel.

In order to move forward with a warrant they were required to submit evidence that Saul Westrom was involved. Soon, the cameras would capture the quick criminal exchange completely.

Sherlock shifted gears as they proceeded up the mountain range. John was feeling some anxiety, being cooped up in the cab bunk and unable to watch Sherlock's driving. The sun was almost to the edge of the evening horizon and they'd been on the road for hours.

A bright red car zipped up behind them. Instead of waiting for a passing lane it cut to the right, the engine revved and within moments it had gone into the other lane and flown around them. Sherlock shook his head in annoyance.

"_Officer_ Norman ought to be three miles out, waiting." Mycroft said wearily through some static. Sherlock nodded but did not respond. The crackling in his earpiece was getting louder.

"We have some interference." He said as the crackling flared up a minute later. "If I lose communication with you, _do not abort_. Let John text you if anything should happen to go wrong."

Sherlock noticed a sign on the side of the road. _Mandatory Weighing - 1.5 Miles_. Below that it read, '_Bypass Photo Enforced'_. Sherlock's heart leaped. Sure enough, within minutes he saw the police car and a truck labeled Hemming's Produce in a gravel lot off to the left. It appeared that the produce truck was going through a mandatory weighing but Sherlock knew better. He began to slow, shifting his gears down.

Sherlock pulled in slowly. He saw where the portable scales were set up and steadily made for them. His earpiece was all static now. He took it out to avoid the distraction, wondering what was causing the interference. His seat jerked as he came to a full stop and it adjusted itself backwards a few inches, pressing up against where John hid. Sherlock was trying to adjust it when a tall police officer walked up, smiling.

From inside the storage part of the bunk, John heard Sherlock speaking but couldn't tell what was being said. He'd felt the seat slam against the top of the bunk and hoped that Sherlock would move it. The thought of being trapped inside worried him. There was a rumble that John suspected was the back of the truck being opened.

He heard Sherlock and what he suspected must be the voice of one of the corrupt police officers. The tone sounded pleasant. John was praying that all went well. A few more minutes and they would be on their way and Lestrade's team would be converging on the officer and the Hemming's produce truck. He took a deep breath. His earpiece had crackled with static and he'd removed it. Now he struggled to adjust and reach for his phone. It buzzed in his pocket.

_All right? –SH_

_Fine. A bit cramped. What's going on? –JW_

_Waiting on them to inspect the cargo. They'll be swapping the faux pills with more flour boxes in a moment. Three men present that I'm aware of. There may be a fourth. –SH_

_Move the seat forward. –JW_

_Jammed. Hang on. –SH_

Moments passed and John could hear Sherlock fiddling with the seat. He blinked tired eyes. He hoped Lestrade's team would be close when Mycroft gave the order. Suddenly, John heard a rough voice, followed by Sherlock's melodic baritone. There was a moment of silence and John frowned when he heard the door of the cab opening and slamming closed. Shouting ensued.

John swore quietly and tried to lift the bunk. With the seat smashed up against it the task was impossible and he lay still for a moment, wondering what to do. From outside he heard shouting. Now he slammed against the lid with all his might, praying that it would budge. It remained still. He dialed Mycroft, cursing all the while.

"Vatican Cameos!" He snapped. The phone was crackling out. "Damn! We need help, Mycroft please, _immediately_! Something's definitely wrong!"

Sherlock had been waiting on the officer to return and tell him he could go. However, he got a sour surprise when Ludoviko Benici stepped up to the window instead and there was a nine millimeter glock pointed directly at Sherlock's head.

"Fancy meeting you here."

"Get out of the car." Lodi snapped, reaching for the cab door.

"Certainly." Sherlock popped it open hard and Lodi was knocked over backwards. In an instant Sherlock was on him. As he attacked he glanced around, taking in as much as he could of his surroundings. On the flat edge of a looming cliff in a park and ride lot sat the two flatbed trucks, a police car and the same red sports car that had passed them earlier. When they had pulled up, the sports car had been concealed by the Hemming's Produce lorry.

There was a shadow coming up from behind. Sherlock reached for the gun. In one fluid movement Lodi was disarmed, the shadow was looming over them and all Sherlock had time to feel was a starburst of pain in the back of his head before everything went black.

John was trying not to panic. Trapped in the storage space of a truck cab's bunker he lay, helpless and terrified for Sherlock's safety. Mycroft had people on the way. In the meantime, John was using every ounce of strength that he could muster to pop the bunker open. He felt the cab move and heard the door slam. He lay still, praying that it was Sherlock. The truck's engine started. He waited. If it was Sherlock John would think that he'd have the decency to say something at this point. Though, it would be like him to leave John wondering.

John swore quietly when the truck started moving. He had a feeling that it wasn't Sherlock behind the wheel. He pushed carefully, quietly against the bunker lid, trying in vain to lift it. John could feel the truck steadily accelerating up hill. Long, tedious minutes passed and the truck came to a stop. If felt like it was facing downward now. His heart was pounding and he was struggling to keep his breathing slow and even. There was a thick pounding in his ears. Something had gone horribly wrong. The cab door opened and he heard a rough voice speaking.

"Sending it of the edge_" was all that John caught and another burst of adrenaline flooded his body. The door creaked and the truck lurched forward uncomfortably. John heard the slide of metal against metal, followed by a sharp click. He gasped in relief. The seat had unjammed and slid forward but the truck was moving, gaining speed. John slammed his hand against the bunker lid, popping it open. He scrambled from his hiding place in a panic. There was no room for thought. He fell over the seat, reached for the door, pushed it open and dove, hitting gravel hard.

He turned in time to see the lorry gaining speed on the long black road and his mouth dropped open as it flew downhill towards the safety barrier at the edge of a deathly steep bend. With a crash, it broke through the barrier and sailed off the cliff.

From behind him there was the noise of heavy boots sprinting across concrete and gravel. Letting instinct take over, John rolled left and sprang to his feet. Officer Norman stood in front of his, baton in hand. The man swore and swung on John again, missing his temple by inches.

John heard sirens in the distance. He blocked another blow, breathing heavily as the burly man attacked. The fear was intense and the darkness became overwhelming as the last bit of twilight light died from the sky. The burly man slipped on the unsteady gravel and John caught him on the jaw with a well-placed fist. Officer Norman grunted, ducked and grabbed John around the waist where they became a tangle of punching, clawing, aggravated flesh and sweat.

It hadn't taken more than a few seconds for Sherlock to wake and begin to assess the situation. He was being hauled to his feet, his head was pounding and the roar of the lorry's engine was raging in his ears.

_John._ He thought, remembering his companion hidden in the cab of it. His heart began racing with fear. He let his head stay down and peered through half closed eyelids. There was the sound of tires moving over gravel. His head was starting to clear. He was being dragged towards the stationary produce truck, which was wide open, waiting to swallow him up.

That meant that someone was driving his lorry, most likely with John still in it. As the man dragging him made to lift his curly haired, dead weighted self into the truck Sherlock came to life, twisting in his arms and unforgivingly jamming a thumb into what he recognized as Leather Jacket Man's eye.

The leather clad man roared, dropping Sherlock like a burning ember to cradle his bleeding face in both hands. Sherlock rolled to his feet, stepping back into a sideways fighting stance. The man with the camo beanie popped out from behind the steering wheel of the truck carrying a long, thin crowbar. Sherlock's head reeled as the man squared up, raising the bar.

He shook his head, trying to get his bearings as the camo man rushed him. He swung the bar down hard as Sherlock side stepped left. He caught the bar over the top where it was close to the man's hands, pulling it down hard. With all his might he reversed, sending the grip end of the bar straight up to hit Camo Man square in the throat. His grip loosened and Sherlock yanked the bar out of it before bashing him over the head. Fury pumped in his veins.

The man in the leather jacket was on his knees, blood dripping down his face and Sherlock ran to him, extended a steel toed foot and delivered a carnal, bone cracking sick square to the chest, sending him flying onto his back.

John and the lorry were out of sight and Sherlock ran to what he could now identify as a red Bentley, swung the door open and was relieved to see the keys still in the ignition. Odds were that upon recognizing him, Lodi planned to capture and subdue the detective. The most logical thing to do then would be to get rid of any evidence that he had been there. The evidence being the lorry, with John inside.

The Continental GT roared to life, growling with all the majestic prowess of a 6.0 litre twin-turbocharged W12 engine. Sherlock took off, maneuvering all forty two thousand kilograms of metric horsepower against the earth's gravitation force over the distance of one metre in one second with all of the fear and fury fueled adrenaline of a man whose only true friend was in immediate, imminent peril.

Hell had no wrath that could compare to the feelings overtaking Sherlock's heart as he sped through the deep, dusky mountain road. Rubber drifted dangerously around each sharp earthly curve. The canyon echoed and the Sherlock thought that he heard the faintest sound of sirens in the distance. He whipped downhill, taking a sharp corner far too quickly and nearly spun out in his attempt to halt at the sudden glimpse of two human figures locked together in battle on the treacherous mountain edge.

All sound disappeared. The darkness was overwhelming outside of the vehicle as Sherlock sprinted towards John and the man who threatened his life. _"HELP!"_ John gasped when he saw Sherlock sprinting towards them. They stepped sideways and Sherlock called out. He panicked as one of the four tangled feet slid. Time stopped.

"_JOHN!"_ Sherlock cried, reaching out helplessly as the two men fell backwards. There was no time to think, no time to hesitate, only time to act and Sherlock hurtled himself over the edge after them into the cold black night.


	7. Chapter 7 - Roll

**Chapter 7**

**Roll**

Sherlock tucked and rolled, hitting the slope and careening into the pitch dark threshold of steep mountain forest. It had occurred briefly to him as Sherlock dove over the edge that there could be anything from a plunging cliff face to a slope of jagged boulders awaiting him there in the darkness. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder as he impacted against the mountain's shoulder and he continued to roll. Finally, thankfully, the terrain flattened out somewhat and Sherlock struggled to stop the momentum his body had carried through the tumble. Far off to his right he heard the familiar, sickening crack of breaking bone. He became aware that somewhere beside him was another body that was also struggling to end the furious heel-over-head roll. He reached out, snagging a coat collar and they fell together, sliding to a stop among the dense pine brush.

"_Sher_sherlock?"_ John's voice gasped in the darkness.

"_Yes."_ Was all the detective could manage to whisper through his strangled breathing. He brushed a mess of leaves out of his face and peered through the darkness. Almost ten feet away lay the man John had been struggling with, deathly still.

Sherlock's eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and he stared forward at John's face.

"_Oh my god."_ John said. In that moment as he fell backwards he'd thought for sure, _this was it_. He would die. In the same instant he saw Sherlock, falling forward, reaching. _No, no, no!_ Then John felt his heart stop as Sherlock had leaped after them. The next thirty seconds was mess of limbs, gravity, pine and dirt and terror.

Now, Sherlock sat on his knees, close before him in the twilight with one hand holding John's coat collar in a stony death grip as if he were afraid to let go. He was shaking, looking at him with a helpless, lost, still fearful expression.

"_Jesus, Sherlock."_ John said. He sat up, threw his arms around the man who had just dove over the edge of a pitch dark cliff after him and buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. Without thinking Sherlock reached back, bringing John's body firmly against him, arms locking around his waist. He felt John's rough, unsteady breathing and relaxed, letting the rhythm his steady, thrumming, _living_ heart calm his nerves. John became speechless, overwhelmed by what had just happened and what was happening now.

In all his life John had never imagined that anyone would follow him over the edge of a cliff without a second thought and it was here, now, in this moment of panic and disaster, cradled in the arms of the only true friend that he'd ever had, John Watson realized that he was deeply, irrevocably, terrifyingly in love.

"You could have _died_." He whispered and felt Sherlock's arms tighten around him. "What_ _what,_ Sherlock, could you possibly have been thinking. That could have been a death drop, _anything_ could have been over the edge."

The sound of sirens was loud now and from up the steep slope Sherlock could see flashing lights as they slowed to a stop.

"I knew what was on the other side." Sherlock's voice was defensive.

"No, ya didn't." John laughed.

"Yes, I did. _You_."

Emotion lodged in John's throat.

Light flooded over them. John leaned back and Sherlock let his arms fall. They looked up into the light, a high powered hand held search light. Neither of them could see who was behind it and they shielded their eyes.

"Glad you weren't far! S' he alive?" Greg Lestrade called, shining the light on the unconscious man beside them. John went to him and felt for a pulse.

"I've got a pulse! He's going to need to be lifted out!" John called. The man's leg was stuck out at an unnatural angle. Sherlock got shakily to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, looking around. He was dazed. Greg threw down two thick ropes to help them climb back to the road. Some EMT's were making a slippery, clumsy decent down the hill to greet their unconscious patient. Up top were two ambulances, a fire truck, a few police car's, Mycroft's vehicle and the Detective Inspector's car. The sheer amount of people was overwhelming at the moment and John took a deep breath. When they got to the top, Mycroft was waiting for them. He raised an eyebrow at the state of their clothes.

"We've recovered the lorry that went over and are in the process of tidying up the weigh station scene. Unfortunately most of the footage will most likely be compromised from the fall." He said.

"Officer Gregory Norman is not a real metropolitan police officer." Sherlock said.

"Obviously." Mycroft responded. "Otherwise we would have had him in custody before now."

"That's how they've been getting away with it." John muttered. "Steal a cop car, steal a uniform, and you steal the authority that comes with it."

"Precisely." Sherlock said, turning away. "I have to have a word with Lestrade." He walked off, leaving John and Mycroft.

"_What happened?_" Mycroft asked sharply.

"Not sure what happened on Sherlock's end. I got stuck in the storage compartment of the lorry and almost went over the edge with it. Got attacked by that big bloke down there Sherlock showed up in time to see us go over backwards."

Mycroft frowned. "Why does he look like he went over with you?"

"Because_ he did. He sort of jumped after us."

Mycroft's mouth tightened into a firm line and he looked up, shaking his head. "While you were being abducted Sherlock managed to render one man unconscious, _blind_ a man in one eye, nearly crush _another_ man's wind pipe and steal a Bentley Continental GT. It pains me to think of him diving off a pitch dark cliff face."

John sighed. "Me too. He said he knew what was on the other side."

"Of course he did." Mycroft said, staring at John strangely. His phone rang and he turned away to take the call. John walked off to find Sherlock.

"Bianca Westrom is being released. She'll get off with some community service and a bit of restitution for her part played in Saul Westrom's game." Sherlock said happily, sitting on the back of Lestrade's car. "Ludovico Benici is being arrested. Balance is restored."

John looked him up and down and couldn't help but smile. Sherlock was covered from head to foot in pine needles and leaves.

"You look much the same." Sherlock said, looking John over once.

John chuckled, glancing down at himself. It was true.

The journey back home was long and tedious. John and Sherlock both began to doze in the back of Greg Lestrade's car. John had drifted off thinking that all of it was _almost _funny. Tonight he had quite literally fallen head over heels in love.

Sally Donovan drove and the Detective Inspector sat in the passenger seat, lost in thought. Sally looked at him.

"A few weeks ago, I told him that it was only a matter of time before he got his friend killed." She said quietly.

"Did you ever imagine Sherlock would go right with him if he did?" Greg replied.

Sally shook her head.

Greg frowned "Well, from the looks of it, he would. John went off the edge and from what was said, Sherlock went right after him."

They rounded a corner and in the back seat, John fell against Sherlock, who wrapped an arm lazily around his shoulders to steady him. John leaned into his hold, completely at ease.

Sally glanced in the mirror at them, half smiling. "He _might_ be human after all."

Greg nodded, thinking about the events of the night. He'd feared the worst when they'd pulled up to see the still running Bentley and no other sign of Sherlock and John besides scuff marks in the dirt. Relief had flooded over when he'd spotted the two at the bottom on the slope, arms wrapped around one another and alive. The last few weeks had been a mess of frustration, confusion and tension. Now, as far as he was concerned, the hardest part was done.

They had been though miraculous cases, dangerous ones, strange ones and sometimes, like this case had been, all out chaotic ones where all a man could do was take a leap and hope for the best. Literally, as of tonight. Truly, there was never any telling what was in store when you worked with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.


End file.
